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A COMPANION-BOOK 



OF 



PROSE AND POETRT 



"My Books, my best companions." 

Fletcher 



BOSTON 
FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO 

SUCCESSORS TO TICKNOR AND FIELDS 
1869 







Butered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1860, bv 

T I C K X OK AND F I E I. D S . 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 



'o£' 



University Press: 

Welch, Bigelow, and Company. 

Cambridge. 



CONTENTS 



Page 
Nathaniel Hawthorne : A Virtuoso's Collection 1 

Alfred Tennyson: Dora ...... 21 

Sir Walter Scott: A Tale of Witchcraft . . .27 

Robert Browning : One Word More ... 37 

Alexander Smith : In a Skye Bothy .... 45 

James Gates Percival : Ruins . . . . OG 

Mrs. Jameson: A Revelation of Childhood ... 71 

Charles Sprague : To Montague . . . , HU 

Barry Cornwall: The JMan-IIuutcr . . . .91 

Gerald Massey: The Norseman . . . . 106 

Edmund Burke: The Druids . . . . . loii 

John G. Whittier : The Witch's Daughter . . 123 

Leigh Hunt : The Old Lady, and The Old Gentleman 131 

William Motherwell: A Sabbath Summer Noon . 140 

Mary Russell Mitford : The Incendiary . . U/i 



IV CONIENTS. 

John G Saxe: Wisliing 159 

Charles Robert Leslie: The Great Portrait- Painters IGl 
Walter Savage Landor : To Age . . . .184 

Matthew Arnold: The Youth of Man . . . 185 
Dr. Arnold: Hannibal's March into Italy . . .189 

Henry W. Longfellow: The Monk Felix . . 211 

Thomas De Quincey: A Mountain Catastrophe . . 21G 

Ralph Waldo Emerson : Threnody . . . 240 

John G. Lockhart : Last Days of Sir Walter Scott . 249 

Oliver Wendell Holmes : The New Eden . . 265 

James Russell Lowell: Cambridge Worthies — Thirty 

Years Ago 270 

Bettina Von Arnim : Beethoven .... 294 

Sir Philip Sidney : A Sonjj from the Arcadia . . 300 



A YIRTTJOSO^S COLLECTION 



By NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. 



THE other clay, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I 
stepped into a new museum, to which my notice was 
casually drawn by a small and unobtrusive sign : " To be 

SEEN HERE, A ViRTTJOSO's COLLECTION." Such waS the 

simple yet not altogether unpromising announcement that 
turned my steps aside for a little while from the sunny side- 
walk of our principal thoroughfare. Mounting a sombre 
staircase, I pushed open a door at its summit, and found 
myself in the presence of a person, who mentioned the mod- 
erate sum that would entitle me to admittance. 

" Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor," said he. " No, I 
mean half a dollar, as you reckon in these days." 

"While searching my pocket for the coin, I glanced at the 
doorkeeper, the marked character and individuality of whose 
aspect encouraged me to expect something not quite in the 
ordmary way. He wore an old-fasliioned great-coat, much 
faded, within wliich his meagre person was so completely 
enveloped, that the rest of his attire was undistinguishable. 
Eiit his visage was remarkably wind-flushed, sunburnt, and 
weather-worn, and had a most unquiet, nervous, and appre- 
hensive expression. It seemed as if this man had some all- 
important object in view, some point of deepest interest 
to be decided, some momentous question to ask, might he 
but hope for a reply. As it was evident, however, that I 
1 



2 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

could have nothing to do with his private affairs, I passed 
through an open doorway, which admitted me into the exten- 
sive hall of the museum. 

Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a 
youth with winged feet. He was represented in the act of 
flitting away from earth, yet wore such a look of earnest 
invitation that it impressed me like a summons to enter the 
hall 

" It is the original statue of Opportunity, by the ancient 
sculptor Lysippus," said a gentleman who now approached 
me. " I place it at the entrance of my museum, because it 
is not at all times that one can gain admittance to such a 
collection." 

The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was 
not easy to determine whether he had spent his life as a 
scholar or as a man of action ; in truth, all outward and ob- 
vious peculiarities had been worn away by an extensive and 
promiscuous intercourse with the world. There was no mark 
about him of profession, individual habits, or scarcely of 
country ; although his dark complexion and high features, 
made me conjecture that he was a native of some southern 
clime of Europe. At all events, he was evidently the vir- 
tuoso in person. 

" With your permission," said he, " as we have no descrip- 
tive catalogue, I will accompany you through the museum, 
and point out whatever may be most worthy of attention. In 
llie first place, here is a choice collection of stuffed animals." 

Nearest the door stood the outward semblance of a wolf, 
exquisitely prepared, it is true, and showing a very wolfish 
fierceness in the large glass eyes which were inserted into 
its wild and crafty head. Still it was merely the skin of a 
wolf, with nothing to distinguish it from other individuals of 
that unlovely breed. 

"How does this animal deserve a place in your collec- 
tion ? " inquired I. 



A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION. 3 

" It is the wolf that devoured Little Eed Eiding Hood," 
answered the virtuoso ; " and by his side — with a milder 
and more matronly look, as you perceive — stands the she- 
wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus." 

" Ah, indeed ! " exclaimed I. " And what lovely lamb is 
this with the snow-white fleece, which seem^ to be of as 
delicate a texture as innocence itself? " 

" Methinks you have but carelessly read Spenser," replied 
my guide, " or you would at once recognize the ' milk-white 
lamb ' which Una led. But I set no great value upon the 
lamb. The next specimen is better worth our notice." 

" Wliat ! " cried I, " this strange animal, with the black 
liead of an ox upon the body of a white horse ? Were ic 
possible to suppose it, I should say that this was Alexander's 
steed Bucephalus." 

" The same," said the virtuoso. " And can you likew'-^e 
give a name to the famous charger that stands beside him ? '' 

Next to the renowned Bucephalus stood the mere skeleton 
of a horse, with the white bones peeping through his ill- 
conditioned hide ; but, if my heart had not warmed towards 
that pitiful anatomy, I might as well have quitted the museum 
at once. Its rarities had not been collected with pain and 
toil from the four quarters of the earth, and from the depths 
of the sea, and from the palaces and sepulchres of ager, icr 
those who could mistake this illustrious steed. 

" It is Rosinante ! " exclaimed I, with enthusiasm. 

And so it proved. My admiration for the n^ble and 
gallant horse caused me to glance with less interest a-!- the 
other animals, although many of them might Iiave deserved 
the notice of Cuvier himself. There was the donkey Avhicli 
Peter Bell cudgelled so soundly, and a brother of the same 
species who had suffered a similar infliction from the anc'ent 
prophet Balaam. Some doubts were entertained, however, 
as to the authenticity of the latter beast. My guide pointeu 
out the venerable Argus, that faithful dog of Ulysses, and 



4 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

also another clog, (for so tlie skin bespoke it,) wliicli, tkough 
imperfectly preserved, seemed once to liave liad tliree heads. 
It was Cerberus. I was considerably amused at detecting 
in an obscure corner the fox that became so famous by the 
loss of his tail. There were several stuffed cats, which, as a 
dear lover of that comfortable beast, attracted my affection- 
ate regards. One was Dr. Johnson's cat Hodge ; and in the 
sfuiie row stood the favorite cats of Mahomet, Gray, and 
Walter Scott, together with Puss in Boots, and a cat of very 
noble aspect who had once been a deity of ancient Egypt. 
Byron's tame bear came next. I must not forget to mention 
the Erymanthean boar, the skin of St. George's dragon, and 
that of the serpent Python ; and another skin with beauti- 
fully variegated hues, supposed to have been the garment 
of the " spirited sly snake " which tempted Eve. Against 
the walls were suspended the horns of the stag that Shake- 
speare shot ; and on the floor lay the ponderous shell of the 
tortoise which fell upon the head of ^schylus. In one row, 
as natural as life, stood the sacred bull Apis, the " cow with 
the crumpled horn," and a very wild-looking young heifer, 
which I guessed to be the cow that jumped over the moon. 
She was probably killed by the rapidity of her descent. As 
I turned away, my eyes fell upon an indescribable monster, 
which proved to be a griffin. 

" I look in vain," observed I, " for the skin of an animal 
which might well deserve the closest study of a naturalist, — 
the winged horse Pegasus." 

" He is not yet dead," replied the virtuoso ; " but he is so 
hard ridden by many young gentlemen of the day that I 
hope soon to add his skin and skeleton to my collection." 

We now passed to the next alcove of the hall, in which 
was a multitude of stuffed birds. They were very prettily 
arranged, some upon the branches of trees, others brooding 
upon nests, and others suspended by wires so artificially that 
they seemed in the very act of flight. Among them was a 



A YIBTUOSO-S COLLECTION. 5 

white clove, witli a withered branch of olive-leaves in her 
mouth. 

" Can this be the very clove," inquired I, " that brought 
the message of peace and hope to the tempest-beaten pas- 
sengers of the ark ? " 

" Even so," said my companion. 

" And this raven, I suppose," continued I, " is the same 
that fed Elijah in the wilderness." 

"The raven? No," said the virtuoso; "it is a bird of 
modern date. He belonged to one Barnaby Rudge ; and 
many people fancied that the Devil himself was disguised 
under his sable plumage. But poor Grip has drawn liis last 
cork, and has been forced to ' say die ' at last. This other 
raven, hardly less curious, is that in which the soul of King 
George I. revisited his lady love, the Duchess of Kendall." 

My guide next pointed out IMinerva's owl and the vultm^e 
that preyed upon the liver of Prometheus. There was like- 
wise the sacred ibis of Egypt, and one of the Stymphalides 
which Hercules shot in his sixth labor. Shelley's skylark, 
Bryant's water-fowl, and a pigeon from the belfry of the Old 
South Church, preserved by N. P. Willis, were placed on 
the same perch. I could not but shudder on beholding 
Coleridge's albatross, transfixed with the Ancient Mariner's 
crossbow shaft. Beside this bird of awful poesy stood a 
gray goose of very ordinary aspect. 

" Stuffed goose is no such rarity," observed I. " "Why do 
you preserve such a specimen in your museum ? " 

" It is one of the flock whose cackhng saved the Romm 
Capitol," answered the virtuoso. " Many geese have cackled 
and hissed both before and since ; but none, like those, have 
clamored themselves into immortality." 

There seemed to be little else that demanded notice in 
this department of the museum, unless we except Robinson 
Crusoe's parrot, a live phoenix, a footless bird of paradise, 
and a splendid peacock, supposed to be the same that once 



6 NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. 

contained the soul of Pjthagoras. I therefore passed to the 
next alcove, the shelves of wliich were covered -svith a mis- 
cellaneous collection of curiosities, such as are usually found 
in similar establishments. One of the first tilings that took 
my eye was a strange-looking cap, woven of some substance 
that appeared to be neither woollen, cotton, nor linen. 

" Is that a magician's cap ? " I asked. 

" No," replied the virtuoso ; " it is merely Dr. Franklin's 
cap of asbestos. But here is one wliich, perhaps, may suit 
you better. It is the wishing-cap of Fortunatus. Will you 
try it on ? " 

"By no means," answered I, putting it aside with my 
hand. " The day of wild wishes is past with me. I desire 
nothing that may not come in the ordinary course of Provi- 
dence." 

" Then probably," returned the virtuoso, " you will not be 
tempted to rub this lamp ? " 

Wliile speaking, he took from the shelf an antique brass 
lamp, curiously wrought with embossed figures, but so cov- 
ered with verdigris that the sculpture was almost eaten 
away. 

" It is a thousand years," said he, " since the genius of this 
lamp constructed Aladdin's palace in a single night. But 
he still retains his power ; and the man who nibs Aladdin's 
lamp has but to desire either a palace or a cottage." 

" I might desire a cottage," replied I ; " but I would have 
it founded on sure and stable truth, not on dreams and fan- 
tasies. I have learned to look for the real and true." 

My guide next showed me Prospero's magic wand, broken 
into three fragments by the hand of its mighty master. On 
the same shelf lay the gold ring of ancient Gyges, which 
enabled the wearer to walk invisible. On the other side of 
the alcove was a tall looking-glass in a frame of ebony, but 
veiled with a curtain of purple silk, through the rents of 
which the gleam of the mirror was perceptible. 



A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION 7 

" This is Cornelius Agrippa's magic glass," observed the 
virtuoso. " Draw aside the curtain, and picture any human 
form within your mind, and it will be reflected in the mir- 
ror." 

" It is enough if I can picture it within my mind," an- 
SAvered I. "Why should I wish it to be repeated in the 
miiTor? But, indeed, these works of magic have grown 
wearisome to me. There are so many greater wonders in 
the world, to those who keep their eyes open and their sight 
undimmed by custom, that all the delusions of the old sorcer- 
ers seem flat and stale. Unless you can show me something 
really curious, I care not to look failher into your museum." 

" Ah, well, then," said the virtuoso, composedly, " perhaps 
you may deem some of my antiquarian rarities deserving of 
a glance." 

He pointed out the ii'on mask, now corroded with rust ; 
and my heart grew sick at the sight of this dreadful relic, 
which had shut out a human being from sympathy with his 
ra<!e. There was nothing half so terrible in the axe that 
beheaded King Charles, nor in the dagger that slew Henry 
of Navarre, nor in the arrow that pierced the heart of Wil- 
liam Rufus, — all of which were shown to me. Many of the 
articles derived their interest, such as it was, from having 
been formerly in the possession of royalty. For instance, 
here was Charlemagne's sheep-skin cloak, the flowing wig of 
Louis Quatorze, the spinning-wheel of Sardanapalus, and 
King Stephen's famous breeches which cost liim but a crown. 
The heart of the Bloody Mary, with the word " Calais " 
worn into its diseased substance, was preserved in a bottle of 
spmts ; and near it lay the golden case in which the queen 
of Gustavus Adolphus treasured up that hero's heart. 
Among these relics and heirlooms of kings I must not forget 
the long, hairy ears of Midas, and a piece of bread which 
had been changed to gold by the touch of that unlucky mon- 
ai'ch. And as Grecian Helen was a queen, it may here be 



8 NATHAKIEL HAWTHOENE. 

mentioned that I was permitted to take into my hand a lock 
of her golden hair and the bowl which a sculptor modelled 
from the curve of her perfect breast. Here, likewise, was 
the robe that smothered Agamemnon, Nero's fiddle, the Czar 
Peter's brandy-bottle, the crown of Semiramis, and Canute's 
sceptre wliich he extended over the sea. That my own land 
may not deem itself neglected, let me add that I was favored 
with a sight of the skull of IGng Philip, the famous Indian 
chief, whose head the Puritans smote off and exhibited upon 
a pole. 

" Show me sometliing else,'* said I to the virtuoso. 
" Kings are in such an artificial position, that people in the 
ordinary walks of life cannot feel an interest in their relics. 
If you could show me the straw hat of sweet little Nell, I 
would far rather see it than a king's golden crown." 

" There it is," said my guide, pointing carelessly with . Ms 
staff to the straw hat in question. " But, indeed, you are 
hard to please. Here are the seven-league boots. Will you 
try them on ? " 

" Our modern railroads have superseded their use," an- 
swered I; "and as to these cowhide boots, X could show you 
quite as curious a pair at the Transcendental community in 
Eoxbury." 

We next examined a collection of swords and other weap- 
ons, belonging to different epochs, but thrown together mth- 
out much attempt at arrangement. Here was Arthur's sword 
Excalibar, and that of the Cid Campeador, and the sword of 
Brutus rusted with Caesar's blood and his own, and the sword 
of Joan of Arc, and that of Horatius, and that with which 
Virginius slew his daughter, and the one which Dionysius 
suspended over the head of Damocles. Here also was Ar- 
ria's sword, which she plunged into her own breast, in order 
to taste of death before her husband. The crooked blade of 
Saladin's cimeter next attracted my notice. I know not by 
what chance, but so it happened, that the sword of one of our 



A VIKTUOSO-S COLLECTION. 9 

militia-generals was suspended between Don Quixote's lance 
and the brown blade of Hudibras. My heart throbbed high 
at the sight of the helmet of Miltiades and the spear that 
was broken in the breast of Epaminondas. I recognized 
the shield of Achilles by its resemblance to the admirable 
cast in the possession of Professor Felton. Nothing in this 
apartment interested me more than Major Pitcairn's pistol, 
the discharge of wliich, at Lexington, began the war of the 
Eevolution, and was reverberated in thunder around the land 
for seven long years. The bow of Ulysses, though unstrung 
for ages, was placed against the wall, together with a sheaf 
of Robin Hood's arrows and the rifle of Daniel Boone. 

"Enough of weapons," said I, at length; "although I 
would gladly have seen the sacred shield which fell from 
heaven in the time of Numa. And surely you should obtain 
the sword which "Washington unsheathed at Cambridge. 
But the collection does you much credit. Let ns pass on." 

Li the next alcove we saw the golden thigh of Pythago- 
ras, which had so divine a meaning ; and, by one of the queer 
analogies to which the virtuoso seemed to be addicted, tliis 
ancient emblem lay on the same shelf with Peter Stuyve- 
sant's wooden leg, that was fabled to be of silver. Here was 
a remnant of the Golden Fleece, and a sprig of yellow leaves 
that resembled the foliage of a frost-bitten elm, but was duly 
authenticated as a portion of the golden branch by which 
^neas gained admittance to the realm of Pluto. Atalanta's 
golden apple and one of the applet of discord were wrapped 
in the napkin of gold which Ehampsinitus brought from Ha- 
des ; and the whole were deposited in the golden vase of 
Bias, with its inscription : " To the wisest." 

" And how did you obtain this vase ? " said I to the vir- 
tuoso. 

" It was given me long ago," replied he, with a scornful 
expression in his eye, " because I had learned to despise all 
things." 



10 NATHANIEL. HAWTHORNE. 

It had not escaped me tliat, tliougli the virtuoso was evi- 
dently a man of high cultivation, yet he seemed to lack sym- 
pathy with the spiritual, the sublime, and the tender. Apart 
from the whim that had led him to devote so much time, 
pains, and expense to. the collection of this museum, he im- 
pressed me as one of the hardest and coldest men of the 
world whom I had ever met. 

" To despise all things ! " repeated I. " This, at best, is 
the wisdom of the understanding. It is the creed of a man 
whose soul, whose better and diviner part, has never beei> 
awakened, or has died out of him." 

" I did not think you were still so young," said the vir- 
tuoso. " Should you live to my years, you will acknowledge 
that the vase of Bias was not ill bestowed." 

Without further discussion of the point, he directed my 
attention to other curiosities. I examined Cinderella's little 
glass, slipper, and compared it with one of Diana's sandals, 
and with Fanny Elssler's shoe, which bore testimony to the 
muscular character of her illustrious foot. On the same 
shelf were Thomas the Rhymer's green velvet shoes, and 
the brazen shoe of Empedocles which was thrown out of 
Mount ^tna. Anacreon's drinking-cup was placed in apt 
juxtaposition with one of Tom Moore's wme-glasses and 
Circe's magic bowl. These were S}Tnbols of luxury and 
riot ; but near them stood the cup whence Socrates drank 
his hemlock, and that which Sir Philip Sidney put from his 
death-parched lips to bestow the draught upon a dying sol- 
dier. Next appeared a cluster of tobacco-pipes, consisting 
of Sir Walter Raleigh's, the earliest on record, Dr. Parr's, 
Charles Lamb's, and the first calumet of peace which was 
ever smoked between a European and an Indian. Among 
other musical instruments, I noticed the lyre of Orpheus and 
those of Homer and Sappho, Dr. Franklin's famous whistle, 
the trumpet of Anthony Van Corlear, and the flute which 
Goldsmith played upon in his rambles through the French 



A VIETUOSO-S COLLECTION. 11 

provinces. Tlie staff of Peter tlie Hermit stood ii. a corner 
with tliat of good old Bishop Jewel, and one of ivory, which 
had belonged to Papirius, the Roman Senator. The pon- 
derous club of Hercules was close at hand. The virtuoso 
showed me the chisel of Phidias, Claude's palette, and the 
brush of Apelles, observing that he intended to bestow 
the former either on Greenough, Crawford, or Powers, and 
the two latter upon Washington Allston. There was a small 
vase of oracular gas from Delphos, which I trust will be 
submitted to the scientific analysis of Professor Silliman. I 
was deeply moved on beholding a vial of the tears into which 
Niobe was dissolved ; nor less so on learning that a shapeless 
fragment of salt was a relic of that victim of despondency 
and sinful regrets. Lot's wife. My companion appeai'ed 
to set great value upon some Egyptian darkness in a black- 
ing-jug. Several of the shelves were covered by a collec- 
tion of coins, among Avhich, however, I remember none but 
the Sjdendid Shilling, celebrated by Phillips, and a dollar's 
worth of the iron money of Lycurgus, weighing about fifty 
pounds. 

Walking carelessly onward, I had nearly fallen over a 
huge bundle, like a pedler's pack, done up in sackcloth, 
and very secm-cly strapped and corded. 

'• It is Christian's burden of sin," said the virtuoso. 

" 0, pray let us open it ! " cried I. " For many a year 
I have longed to know its contents." 

'' Look into your own consciousness and memory," replied 
the virtuoso. "You will there find a list of Avhatever it 
contains." 

As this was an undeniable truth, I threw a melancholy 
look at the burden and passed on. A collection of old gar- 
ments, hanging on pegs, was worthy of some attention, es- 
pecially the shirt of Nessus, Csesar's mantle, Joseph's coat 
of many colors, the Vicar of Bray's cassock, Goldsmith's 
peach-bloom suit, a pair of President Jefferson's scaidet 



12 NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE. 

breeches, John Randolph's red-baize hunting-shirt, the drab 
small-clothes of the Stout Gentleman, and the rags of the 
" man all tattered and torn." George Fox's hat impressed 
me with deep reverence as a relic of perhaps the truest 
apostle that has appeared on earth for these eighteen hun- 
dred years. My eye was next attracted by an old pair of 
shears, which I should have taken for a memorial of some 
famous tailor, only that the virtuoso pledged his veracity that 
they were the identical scissors of Atropos. He also showed 
me a broken hour-glass which had been thrown asid^e by 
Father Time, together with the old gentleman's gray fore- 
lock, tastefully braided into a brooch. In the hour-glass was 
the handful of sand, the grains of which had numbered the 
years of the Cumsean sibyl. I think that it was in this 
alcove that I saw the inkstand which Luther thi^ew at the 
Devil, and the ring which Essex, wliile under sentence of 
death, sent to Queen Elizabeth. And here was the blood- 
incrusted pen of steel with which Faust signed away his 
salvation. 

The virtuoso now opened the door of a closet, and showed 
me a lamp burning, while three others stood unlighted by iia 
side. One of the three was the lamp of Diogenes, another 
that of Guy Fawkes, and the third that which Hero set forth 
to the midnight breeze in the high tower of Abydos. 

" See ! " said the virtuoso, blowing with all his force at the 
lighted lamp. 

The flame quivered and shrank away from his breath, but 
clung to the wick, and resumed its brilliancy as soon as tho 
blast was exhausted. 

" It is an undying lamp from the tomb of Charlemagne," 
observed my guide. " That flame was kindled a thousand 
years ago." 

" How ridiculous to kindle an unnatural light in tombs ! " 
exclaimed I. " We should seek to behold the dead in the 
light of heaven. But what is the meaninoj of this chafing- 
dish of glowing coals ? " , 



o 



A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION. 13 

^' That," answered the virtuoso, " is the original fire which 
Prometheus stole from heaven. Look steadfastly into it, 
and you will discern another curiosity." 

I gazed into that fire, — which, symbolically, was the origin 
of all that was bright and glorious in the soul of man, — and 
in the midst of it, behold, a little reptile, sporting with evi- 
dent enjoyment of the fervid heat ! It was a salamander. 

" What a sacrilege ! " cried I, with inexpressible disgust. 
'' Can you find no better use for this ethereal fire than to 
cherish a loathsome reptile in it ? Yet there are men who 
abuse the sacred fire of their owti souls to as foul and 
guilty a purpose." 

The virtuoso made no answer except by a dry laugh and 
an assurance that the salamander was the very same which 
Benvenuto Cellini had seen in his father's household fire. 
He then proceeded to show me other rarities ; for this closet 
appeared to be the receptacle of what he considered moFt 
valuable in liis collection. 

" There," said he, " is the Great Carbuncle of the White 
Mountains." 

I gazed with, no little interest at this mighty gem, which it 
had been one of the wild projects of my youth to discover. 
Possibly it might have looked brighter to me in those days 
than now ; at all events, it had not such brilliancy as to detain 
me long from the other articles of the museum. The virtu- 
oso pointed out to me a crystalline stone which hung by a 
g( Vi ch^in against the wall. 

'- That is the philosopher's stone," said he. 

'• And have you the elixir vitse which generally accompa- 
nies it ? " inquired I. 

" Even so ; this um is filled with it," he replied. " A 
di-aught would refresh you. Here is Hebe's cup ; will you 
quaff a health from it ? " 

IMy heart thrilled within me at the idea of such a reviving 
draught; for methought I had great need of it after travel 



14 NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. 

ling so far on the dusty road of life. But I know not whether 
it were a peculiar glance in the virtuoso's eye, or the circum- 
stance that this most precious liquid was contained in an an- 
tique sepulchral urn, that made me pause. Then came many 
a thought mth which, in the calmer and better hours of life, 
I had strengthened myself to feel that Death is the very 
friend whom, in his due season, even the happiest mortal 
should he willing to embrace. 

" No ; I desire not an earthly immortality," said I. 
*' Were man to live longer on the earth, the spiritual would 
die out of him. The spark of ethereal fire would be choked 
by the material, the sensual. There is a celestial something 
within us that requires, after a certain time, the atmosphere 
of heaven to preserve it from decay and ruin. I will have 
none of this liquid. You do well to keep it in a sepulchral 
urn ; for it would produce death while bestowing the shadow 
of life." 

"All this is unintelligible to me," responded my guide, 
with indifference. " Life — earthly life — is the only good. 
But you refuse the draught ? Well, it is not Hkely to be 
offered twice within one man's experience. Probably you 
have griefs which you seek to forget in death. I can enable 
you to forget them in life. Will you take a draught of 
Lethe?" 

As he spoke, the virtuoso took from the shelf a crystal 
vase containing a sable liquor, which caught no reflected 
inage from the objects around. 

" Not for the world ! " exclaimed I, shrinking back. " I 
can spare none of my recollections, not even those of error 
or sorrow. They are all ahke the food of my spirit. Aa 
well never to have lived as to lose them now." 

Without further parley we .passed to the next alcove, the 
shelves of which were burdened with ancient volumes and 
with those rolls of papyrus in which was treasured up the 
eldest wisdom of the earth. Perhaps the most valuable 



A VIETUOSO'S COLLECTION. 15 

work in tlie collection, to a bibliomaniac, was the Book of 
Hermes. For my part, however, I would have given a 
higher price for those six of the Sibyl's books which Tarquin 
refused to purchase, and which the virtuoso informed me he 
had hmiself found in the cave of Trophonius. Doubtless 
these old volumes contain prophecies of the fate of Rome, 
both as respects the decline and fall of her temporal empire 
and the rise of her spiritual one. Not without value, like- 
v,ise, was the work of Anaxagoras on Nature, hitherto sup 
posed to be irrecoverably lost, and the missing treatises of 
Longinus, by which modern criticism might profit, and those 
books of Livy for which the classic student has so long sor- 
rowed without hope. Among these precious tomes I observed 
the original manuscript of the Koran, and also that of the 
IMormon Bible in Joe Smith's authentic autogTaph. Alex- 
ander's copy of the Iliad was also there, enclosed in the 
jewelled casket of Darius, still fragrant of the perfumes 
which the Persian kept in it. 

, Opening an iron-clasped volume, bound in black leather, I 
discovered it to be Cornelius Agrippa's book of magic ; and 
it was rendered still more interesting by the fact that many 
flowers, ancient and modern, were pressed between its leaves. 
Here was a rose from Eve's bridal bower, and all those red 
and white roses which were plucked in the garden of the 
Temple by the partisans of York and Lancaster. Here was 
Halleck's Wild Rose of Alloway. Cowper had contributed 
a Sensitive-Plant, and Wordsworth an Eglantine, and Bums 
a Mountain Daisy, and Kirke ^Yliite a Star of Bethlehem, 
and Longfellow a Sprig of Fennel, with its yellow flowers. 
James Russell Lowell had given a Pressed Flower, but fra- 
grant still, which had been shadowed in the Rliine. There 
was also a sprig from Southey's Holly-Tree. One of the 
most beautiful specimens was a Fringed Gentian, wliich 
had been plucked and preserved for immortality by Bryant. 
From Jones Very, a poet whose voice is scarcely heard 



16 NATHAXIEL HAWTHORNE. 

among us by reason of its depth, there was a Windflower 
and a Columbine. 

As I closed Cornelius Agrippa's magic volume, an old, 
mildewed letter fell upon the floor. It proved to be an au- 
tograph from the Flying Dutchman to his wife. I could 
linger no longer among books ; for the afternoon was waning, 
and there was yet much to see. The bare mention of a few 
more curiosities must suffice. The immense skull of Poly- 
phemus was recognizable by the cavernous hollow in the 
centre of the forehead where once had blazed the giant's 
single eye. The tub of Diogenes, Medea's caldron, and 
Psyche's vase of beauty were placed one within another. 
Pandora's box, without the lid, stood next, containing noth- 
ing but the girdle of Venus, which had been carelessly flung 
into it. A bundle of birch rods which had been used by 
Shenstone's schoolmistress were tied up with the Countess 
of SaUsbury's garter. I know not which to value most, a 
I'oc's egg as big as an ordinary hogshead, or the shell of the 
Qg^ which Columbus set upon its end. Perhaps the most 
delicate article in the whole museum was Queen Mab's 
chariot, which, to guard it from the touch of meddlesome 
lingers, was placed under a glass tumbler. 

Several of the shelves were occupied by specimens of 
entomology. Feeling but little interest in the science, T 
noticed only Anacreon's gi^asshopper, and a humble-bee which 
had been presented to the virtuoso by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

In the part of the hall which we had now reached I ob- 
served a curtain, that descended from the ceiling to the floor 
ill voluminous folds, of a depth, richness, and magnificence 
which I had never seen equalled. It was not to be doubted 
that this splendid though dark and solemn veil concealed a 
portion of the museum even richer in wonders than that 
through which I had already passed ; but, on my attempting 
to grasp the edge of the curtain and di'aw it aside, it proved 
to be an illusive picture. 



A VIRTUOSO'S COLLECTION. 17 

" You need not blush," remarked the virtuoso ; " for that 
same curtain deceived Zeuxis. It is the celebrated painting 
of Parrhasius." 

In a range with the curtam there were a number of other 
choice pictures by artists of ancient days. Here was the fa- 
mous cluster of grapes by Zeuxis, so admirably depicted that 
it seemed as if the ripe juice were bursting forth. As to 
Ihe picture of the old woman by the same illustrious painter, 
jind wliich was so ludicrous that he himself died with laugh- 
ing at it, I cannot say that it particularly moved my risibility. 
Ancient humor seems to have little power over modern mus- 
cles. Here, also, was the horse painted by Apelles, wliich 
living horses neighed at ; his first portrait of Alexander 
the Great ; and his last unfinished picture of Venus asleep. 
Each of these works of art, together with others by Parrha- 
sius, Timanthes, Polygnotus, Apollodorus, Pausias, and Pam- 
philus, required more time and study than I could bestow for 
the adequate perception of their merits. I shall therefore 
leave them undescribed and uncriticised, nor attempt to 
settle the cpiestion of superiority between ancient and mod- 
ern art. 

For the same reason I shall pass lightly over the speci- 
mens of antique sculpture wliich this indefatigable and for- 
tunate virtuoso had dug out of the dust of fallen empires. 
Here was JEtion's cedar statue of ^sculapius, much de- 
cayed, and Alcon's iron statue of Hercules, lamentably 
rusted. Here was the statue of Victory, six feet liigh, which 
(lie Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had held in his hand. Here 
was a forefinger of the Colossus of Rhodes, seven feet in 
lengtli. Here was the Venus Urania of Phidias, and other 
images of male and female beauty or grandeur, wrought by 
sculptors who appear never to have debased their souls by 
tlie sight of any meaner forms than those of gods or godlike 
mortals. But the deep simplicity of these great works was 
not to be comprehen,ded by a mind excited and disturbed, as 



18 



NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. 



objects that had recently been 



mine was, by the various 
sented to it. I therefore turned away with merely a passing 
glance, resolving on some future occasion to brood over each 
individual statue and picture until my inmost spirit should 
feel their excellence. In tliis department, again, I noticed 
the tendency to whimsical combinations and ludicrous analo- 
gies T^hich seemed to influence many of the arrangements of 
tlie museum. The wooden statue so well known as the 
Palladium of Troy was placed in close apposition with the 
wooden head of General Jackson which was stolen a few 
years since from the bows of the frigate Constitution. 

We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, 
and found ourselves again near the door. Feeling somewhat 
wearied with the survey of so many novelties and antiqui- 
ties, I sat down upon Cowper's sofa, while the virtuoso threw 
liimself carelessly into Rabelais's easy-chair. Casting my 
eyes upon the opposite wall, I was surprised to perceive the 
shadow of a man flickering unsteadily across the wainscot, 
and looking as if it were stirred by some breath of air that 
found its way through the door or windows. No substantial 
figure was visible from which this shadow might be thrown ; 
nor, had there been such, was there any sunsliine that would 
have caused it to darken upon the Avail. 

" It is Peter Schlemihl's shadow," observed the virtuoso, 
" and one of the most valuable articles in my collection." 

" MetliinlvS a shadow would have made a fitting doorkeeper 
to such a museum," said I ; " although, indeed, yonder figure 
has something strange and fantastic about him, which suits 
well enough with many of the impressions which I have 
received here. Pray, who is he ? " 

Wliile speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before 
at the antiquated presence of the person who had admitted 
me, and who still sat on his bench Avith the same restless 
aspect, and dim, confused, questioning anxiety that I had 
noticed on my first entrance. At this moment lie looked 



A YIRTUOSO-S COLLECTION. 19 

eagerly toward us, and, lialf starting from his seat, addi-essed 
me. 

" I beseech you, kind sir," said he, in a cracked, melan- 
choly tone, " have pity on the most unfortunate man in the 
world. For Heaven's sake, answer me a single question ! 
Is this the town of Boston ? " 

" You have recognized him now," said the virtuoso. " It 
is Peter Rugg, the missing man. I chanced to meet him 
the other day still in search of Boston, and conducted him 
hither ; and, as he could not succeed in finding his friends, I 
have taken him into my service as doorkeeper. He is some- 
what too apt to ramble, but otherwise a man of trust and 
integrity." 

" And might I venture to ask," continued I, " to whom am 
I indebted for this afternoon's gratification ? " 

The virtuoso, before replj^ing, laid his hand upon an an- 
tique dart or javelin, the rusty steel head of which seemed 
to have been blunted, as if it had encountered the resistance 
of a tempered shield, or breastplate. 

" My nam^e has not been T\nthout its distinction in the 
world for a longer period than that of any other man alive," 
answered he. " Yet many doubt of my existence ; perhaps 
you will do so to-morrow. This dart which I hold in my 
hand was once grim Death's own weapon. It served liini 
well for the space of four thousand years ; but it fell blunted 
as you see, when he directed it against my breast." 

These words were spoken with the calm and cold courtesy 
of manner that had characterized this singular personage 
throughout our interview. I fancied, it is true, that there 
was a bitterness indefinably mingled with liis tone, as of one 
cut off from natural sympatliies and blasted with a doom that 
had been inflicted on no other human being, and by the re- 
sults of which he had ceased to be human. Yet, withal, it 
seemed one of the most terrible consequences of that doom 
that the victim no longer regarded it as a calamity, but had 



20 NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. 

finally accepted it as the greatest good tliat could Lave 
befallen him. 

" You are the Wandering Jew ! " exclaimed I. 

The virtuoso bowed, without emotion of any kind, for, by 
centuries of custom, he had almost lost the sense of strange- 
ness in his fate, and was but imperfectly conscious of the 
astonishment and awe with which it affected such as are 
capable of death. 

" Your doom is indeed a fearful one ! " said I, with irre- 
pressible feeling and a frankness that afterwards startled me ; 
" yet perhaps the ethereal spirit is not entirely extinct under 
air tliis coiTupted or frozen mass of earthly life. Perhaps 
the immortal spark may yet be reldndled by a breath of 
heaven. Perhaps you may yet be permitted to die before it 
is too late to live eternally. You have my prayers for such 
a consummation. Farewell." 

" Your prayers will be in vain," replied he, with a smile of 
cold triumph. " My destiny is linked with the realities of 
earth. You are welcome to your visions and shadows of a 
future state ; but give me what I can see, and touch, and 
understand, and I ask no more." 

" It is indeed too late," thought I. " The soul is dead 
M'ithin him." 

Struggling between pity and horror, I extended my hand, 
to which the virtuoso gave his own, still with the habitual 
courtesy of a man of the world, but without a single heart- 
tlirob of human brotherhood. The touch seemed like ice, 
}'et I know not whether morally or physically. As I de- 
parted, he bade me observe that the inner door of the hall 
was constructed with the ivory leaves of the gateway 
through which ^neas and the Sibyl had been disnissed 
from Hades. 



DORA. 



By ALFKED TENNYSON. 



WITH Farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was liis son, 
And she liis niece. He often looked at them, 
And often thought, " I '11 make them man and wife." 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearned towards WilHam ; but the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan called liis son, and said, " My son : 
I married late, but I would msh to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; tlu'ifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for liis sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wished tliis marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But WiUiam answered short : 
" I cannot maxry Dora ; by my life, 
I ^vill not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 



22 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And nevermore darken my doors again ! " 
But William answered madly ; bit liis lips, 
And broke away. The more he looked at her, 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work -within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son. 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife. 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he passed his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and liis father helped him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest-time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought 



DORA. 23 

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 

" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 

And I have sinned, for it was all through me 

This evil came on William at the first. 

But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 

And for this orphan, I am come to you : 

You know there has not been for these five years 

So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 

And I will set him in my uncle's eye 

Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 

And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone. 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown ; where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field. 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart failed her ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer passed into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said, " Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answered softly, " This is William's child ! " 



24 ALFKED TEXNYSON. 

" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 

Forbid yon, Dora ? " Dora said ivgain : 

" Do with me as you will, but take the child, 

And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone ! " 

And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 

To shght it. WeU — for I will take the boy ; 

But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bowed down hei head, 
Kemembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bowed down 
• And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And, now I tliink, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 



DOKA. 25 

But if he will not take tliee back again, 
Then thou and I Tvdll live within one house, 
And work for William's cliild, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kissed 
Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peeped and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Wlio thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved Mm ; and the lad stretched out 
And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : — 

" Father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I asked him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue liis marrying me. — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 
That he w^as wrong to cross his father thus : 

^ God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then he turned 
His face and passed — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 



26 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And all at once tlie old man burst in sobs : — 

'' I have been to blame — to blame ! I liave killed my son ! 

I have killed him ! — but I loved him — my dear son ! 

]May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 

Kiss me, my children ! " 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse, 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 
And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 




■^ZJ^iS^/ V,"?:^; 



/J^^6". 



PiODlished Ly Ticlmor and Fields .Boston . 



A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT 



By sir WALTER SCOTT. 



MARGARET BARCLAY, wife of Arcliibald Dein. 
burgess of Irvine, had been slandered by her sister 
in-law, Janet Lyal, the spouse of John Dein, brother of 
Ai'chibald, and by John Dein liimself, as guilty of some act 
of theft. Upon this provocation Margaret Barclay raised an 
action of slander before the church court, which prosecution, 
after some procedure, the kirk-session discharged, by direct- 
ing a reconcihation between the parties. Nevertheless, al- 
though the two women shook hands before the com-t, yet the 
said Margaret Bai'clay declared that she gave her hand only 
in obedience to the kirk-session, but that she still retained 
her hatred and ill-will against John Dein and his wife Janet 
Lyal. About this time the bark of John Dein was about to 
sail for France, and Andrew Train, or Tran, Provost of the 
burgh of Irvine, wdio was an o^vner of the vessel, went with 
liim, to superintend the commercial part of the voyage. Two 
other merchants of some consequence went in the same ves- 
sel, ^^dth a sufficient number of mariners. Margaret Barclay, 
the revengeful person already mentioned, was heard to im- 
precate curses upon the provost's argosy, praying to God 
that sea nor salt-water might never bear the ship, and that 
'partans (crabs) might eat the crew at the bottom of the sea 
When, under these auspices, the sliip was absent on her 
voyage, a vagabond fellow, named John Stewart, pretending 



28 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

to liave knowledge of jugglery, and to possess the power of ' 
a spaeman, came to the residence of Tran, the provost, and 
dropped explicit hints that the ship was lost, and that the 
o;ood woman of the house was a widow. The sad truth w^as 
afterward learned on more certain information. Two of the 
seamen, after a space of doubt and anxiety, arrived with the 
melancholy tidings that the bark of which John Dein was 
skipper and Provost Tran part-owner had been wrecked on 
the coast of England, near Padstow, when all on board had 
been lost, except the two sailors who brought the notice. 
Suspicion of sorcery, in those days easily awakened, was 
fixed on Margaret Barclay, who had imprecated curses on 
the ship ; and on John Stewart, the juggler, who had seemed 
to know of the evil fate of the voyage before he could have 
become acquainted with it by natural means. 

Stewart, who was fii'st apprehended, acknowledged that 
Margaret Barclay, the other suspected person, had applied 
to him to teach her some magic arts, " in order that she might 
get gear, kye's milk, love of man, her heart's desire on such 
persons as had done her wrong, and, finally, that she might 
obtain the fruit of sea and land." Stewart declared that he 
'denied to Mai-garet that he possessed the said arts himself, 
or had the power of communicating them. So far was well ; 
but, true or false, he added a string of circumstances, whether 
voluntarily declared or extracted by torture, which tended to 
fix the cause of the loss of the bark on Margaret Barclay. ' 
He had come, he said, to this woman's house in Irvine, 
shortly after the ship set sail from harbor. He went to 
Margaret's house by night, and found her engaged, with other 
two women, in making clay figures ; one of the figures was 
made handsome, with fair hair, supposed to represent Pro- 
vost Tran. They then proceeded to mould a figure of a ship 
in clay, and during this labor the Devil appeared to the 
company in the shape of a handsome black lapdog, such as 
ladies use to keep. He added that the whole party left the 



A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT. 29 

house togetlier, and went into an empty waste-liouse nearer 
tlie seaport, which house he pointed out to the city magis- 
trates. From this house they went to the seaside, followed 
by the black lapdog aforesaid, and cast in the figures of clay 
representing the ship and the men ; after which the sea raged, 
roared, and became red like the juice of madder in a dyer's 
caldron. 

This confession having been extorted from the unfortunate 
juggler, the female acquaintances of Margaret Barclay were 
next convened, that he might point out her associates in form- 
ing the charm, when he pitched upon a woman called Isobel 
Insli, or Taylor, who resolutely denied having ever seen liim 
before. She was imprisoned, however, in the belfry of the 
church. An addition to the e^ddence against the poor old 
woman Insh was then procured from her own daughter, Mar- 
garet Tailzeour, a child of eight years old, who lived as ser- 
vant with Margaret Barclay, the person principally accused. 
This child, who was keeper of a baby belonging to Margaret 
Barclay, either from terror, or the innate love of falsehood 
which we have observed as proper to childhood, declared, 
that she was present when the fatal models of clay were 
formed, and that, in plunging them in the sea, Margaret Bar- 
clay, her mistress, and her mother, Isobel Insh, were assisted 
by another woman, and a girl of fourteen years old, who 
dwelt at the. town-head! Legally considered, the evidence 
of this child was contradictory, and inconsistent with the con- 
fession of the juggler, for it assigned other particulars and 
dramatis personce in many respects different. But all was 
accounted sufficiently regular, especially since the girl failed 
not to swear to the presence of the black dog, to whose ap- 
pearance she also added the additional terrors of that of a 
black man. The dog also, according to her account, emitted 
flashes from its jaws and nostrils, to illuminate the witches 
during the pei-formance of the spell. The child maintained 
this story even to her mother's face, only alleging that Isobel 



30 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Insli remained beliind in the waste-house, and was not pres- 
ent when the images were put into the sea. For her own 
countenance and presence on the occasion, and to insure her 
secrecy, her mistress promised her a pair of new shoes. 

John Stewart, being re-examined, and confronted with the 
child, was easily compelled to allow that the " little smatch- 
et" was there, and to give that marvellous account of liis 
correspondence with Elfland, which we have given else- 
where. 

The conspiracy thus far, as they conceived, disclosed, the 
magistrates and ministers wrought hard with Isobel Lish, tc 
prevail upon her to tell the truth ; and she at length acknowl- 
edged her presence at the time when the models of the sliip 
and mariners were destroyed, but endeavored so to modify 
her declaration as to deny all personal accession to the guilt. 
This poor creature almost admitted the supernatural powers 
imputed to her, promising Bailie Dunlop (also a mariner), 
by whom she was imprisoned, that if he would dismiss her, 
he should never make a bad voyage, but have success in all 
his dealings by sea and land. She was finally brought to 
promise that she would fully confess the whole that she knew 
of the affair on the morrow. 

But finding herself in so hard a strait, the unfortunate 
woman made use of the darkness to attempt an escape. 
With this view she got out by a back window of the belfry, 
although, says the report, there were " iron bolts, locks, and 
fetters on her " ; and attained the roof of the church, where, 
losing her footing, she sustained a severe fall, and was greatly 
bruised. Being apprehended. Bailie Dunlop again urged 
her to confess ; but the poor woman was determined to ap- 
peal to a more merciful tribunal, and maintained her inno- 
cence to the last minute of her life, denying all that she had 
formerly admitted, and dying five days after her fall from 
the roof of the church. The inhabitants of Irvine attributed 
her death to poison. 



A TALE OF WITCHCEAFT. 31 

The scene began to thicken, for a commission was granted 
for the trial of the two remaining persons accused, namely, 
Stewart the juggler and Margaret Barclay. The day of 
trial being arrived, the following singular events took place, 
wliich we give as stated in the record. 

" My Lord and Earl of Eglintoune (who lwell« Tvlthiii 
the space of one mile to the said burgh), having come 
to the said burgh at the earnest request of the said Justices, 
for giving to them of liis lordship's countenance, concur- 
rence, and assistance, in trying of the aforesaid devilish 
practices, conform to the tenor of the foresaid commission, 
the said John Stewart, for his better preserving to the 
day of the assize, Avas put in a sure lockfast l)Ooth, where 
no manner of person might have access to him till the 
downsitting of the Justice Court, and for avoiding of putting 
A-iolent hands on liimself, he was very strictly guarded, and 
fettered by the arms, as use is. And upon that same day 
of the assize, about half an hour before the downsitting of 
the Justice Court, Mr. David Dickson, minister at Irvine, 
and ]Mr. George Dunbar, minister of Air, having gone to 
liim, to exhort liim to call on liis God for mercy for his by- 
gone wicked and evil life, and that God would of his infinite 
mercy loose him out of the bonds of the Devil, whom he 
had served these many years bygone, he acquiesced in their 
prayer and godly exhortation, and uttered these words : ' I 
am so straitly guarded, that it lies not in my power to get my 
hand to take off my bonnet, nor to get bread to my mouth.' 
And immediately after the departing of the two mmisters 
from liim, the juggler being sent for at the desire of my Lord 
of Eglintoune, to be confronted with a woman of the burgh 
of Air, called Janet Bous, who was apprehended by the 
magistrates of the burgh of Air for witchcraft, and sent to 
the burgh of Iiwine purposely for that affair, he was found 
by the burgh officers who went about him, strangled and 
hanged by the cruik of the door, with a tait of hemp, or 



32 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

a string made of hemp, supposed to have been his garter, 
or string of his bonnet, not above the length of two span 
long, his knees not being from the ground half a span, 
and was brought out of the house, his life not being totally 
expelled. But, notwithstanding of whatsoever means used 
in the contrary for remeid of his Hfe, he revived not, but 
so ended his life miserably, by the help of the Devil his 

master. 

« 

" And because there was then only in life the said Marga- 
ret Barclay, and that the persons summoned to pass upon her 
assize, and upon the assize of the juggler, who, by the help 
of the Devil his master, had jDut violent hands on himself, 
were all present within the said burgh ; therefore, and for 
eschewing of the like in the person of the said Margaret, 
our sovereign lord's justices in that part, particularly above- 
named, constituted by commission, after solemn deliberation 
and advice of the said noble lord, whose concurrence and 
advice was chiefly required and taken in tliis matter, con- 
cluded with all possible diligence before the downsitting of 
the Justice Court, to put the said Margaret in torture ; in 
respect the Devil, by God's permission, had made her asso- 
ciates, who were the lights of the cause, to be their own 
hurrioes (slayers). They used the torture underwi'itten, as 
being most safe and gentle (as the said noble lord assured 
the said justices), by putting of her two bare legs in a pair 
of stocks, and thereafter by onlaying of certain iron gauds 
(bars), severally, one by one, and then eildng and augment- 
ing the weight by laying on more gauds, and in easing of 
lier by offtaldng of the iron gauds one or more, as occasion 
offered, which iron gauds were but little short gauds, and 
broke not the skin of her legs, &c. 

" After using of the which kind of gentle torture, the said 
Margaret began, according to the increase of the pain, to 
cry, and crave for God's cause to take off her shins the fore- 
said irons, and she should declare truly the whole matter 



A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT. 33 

Which being removed, she began at her former denial : and 
being of new assayed in torture as of befoir, she then uttered 
these words : ' Take off, take off, and before God I shall 
show you the whole form ! ' 

"And the said ii'ons being of new, upon her faithfull 
promise, removed, she then desired my Lord of Eglintoune, 
the said four justices, and the said Mr. David Dickson, min- 
ister of the burgh, ]Mi\ George Dunbar, minister of Ayi% 
and Mr. Mitchell Wallace, minister of Kilmarnock, and Mr. 
John Cunninghame, minister of Dairy, and Hugh Kennedy, 
provost of Ayr, to come by themselves, and to remove all 
others, and she should declare truly, as she should answer to 
God, the whole matter. Wliose desire in that being fulfilled, 
she made her confession in this manner, but (i. e. without) 
any kind of demand, freely, without interrogation ; God's 
name by earnest prayer being called upon for opening of 
her lips, and easing of her heart, that she, by rendering of 
the truth, might glorify and magnify his holy name, and dis- 
appoint the enemy of her salvation." — Trial of Margaret 
Barclay, ^c, 1618. 

Margaret Barclay, who was a young and lively person, 
had hitherto conducted herself like a passionate and high- 
tempered woman innocently accused, and the only appear- 
ance of conviction obtained against her was, that she carried 
about her rowan-tree and colored thread, to make, as she 
said, her cow give milk, when it began to fail. But the 
gentle torture — a strange junction of words — recommended 
as an anodyne by the good Lord Eglinton, — the placing, 
namely, her legs in the stocks, and loading her bare shins 
Avith bars of iron, overcame her resolution : when, at her 
screams and declarations that she Avas willing to tell all, the 
weights were removed. She then told a story of destroying 
the ship of John Dein, affirming that it was with the pur- 
pose of killing only her brother-in-law and Provost Tran, 
and saving tlie rest of the crew. She at the same time in- 

3 



34 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

volved in the guilt Isobel Crawford. This poor woman was 
also apprehended, and, in great terror, confessed the imputed 
crime, retorting the principal blame on Margaret Barclay 
herself The trial was then appointed to proceed, when 
Alexander Dean, the husband of Margaret Barclay, ap- 
peared in court with a lawyer to act in his wife's behalf. 
Apparently, the sight of her husband awakened some hope 
and desire of life, for when the prisoner was asked by the 
lawyer whether she wished to be defended, she answered, 
" As you please. But all I have confessed was in agony of 
torture ; and, before God, all I have spoken is false and 
untrue." To which she pathetically added, " Ye have been 
too long in coming." 

The jury, unmoved by these affecting circumstances, pro- 
ceeded upon the principle that the confession of the accused 
could not be considered as made under the influence of tor- 
ture, since the bars were not actually upon her limbs at the 
time it was delivered, although they were placed at her 
elbow, ready to be again laid on her bare shins, if she was 
less explicit in her declaration than her auditors wished. 
On this nice distinction, they in one voice found Margaret 
Barclay guilty. It is singular that she should have again 
returned to her confession after sentence, and died affirming 
it ; — the explanation of which, however, might be, either 
that she had really in her ignorance and folly tampered 
with some idle spells, or that an apparent penitence for her 
offence, however imaginary, was the only mode in which she 
could obtain any share of public sympathy at her death, or 
a portion of the prayers of the clergy and congregation, 
which, in her circumstances, she might be willing to pur- 
chase, even by confession of what all believed respecting 
her. It is remarkable, that she earnestly entreated the 
magistrates that no harm should be done to Isobel Craw- 
ford, the woman whom she had herself accused. This un- 
fortunate young creature was strangled at the stake, and her 



A TALE OF WITCHCRAFT. 35 

body burned to ashes, having died with many expressions of 
religion and penitence. 

It was one fatal consequence of these cruel persecutions, 
that one pile was usually lighted at the embers of another. 
Accordingly, in the present case, three victims having al- 
ready perished by this accusation, the magistrates, incensed 
at the nature of the crime, so perilous as it seemed to men 
of a maritime life, and at a loss of several friends of their 
own, one of whom had been their principal magistrate, did 
not forbear to msist against Isobel Crawford, inculpated by 
IMargaret Barclay's confession. A new commission was 
granted for her trial, and after the assistant minister of Ir- 
vine, Mr. David Dickson, had made earnest prayers to God 
for opening her obdurate and closed heart, she was subjected 
to the torture of iron bars laid upon her bare shins, her feet 
being m the stocks, as in the case of Margaret Barclay. 

She endured this torture with incredible firmness, since 
she did " admirably, without any kind of din or exclamation, 
suffer above thirty stone of iron to be laid on her legs, never 
sln-inldng thereat in any sort, but remaining, as it were, 
steady." But in sliifting the situation of the iron bars, and 
removing them to another part of her shins, her constancy 
gave way; she broke out into horrible cries (though not 
more than three bars were then actually on her person) 
of "Tak aff! tak aff!" On being relieved from the tor- 
ture, she made the usual confession of all that she was 
charged with, and of a connection with the Devil which had 
subsisted for several years. Sentence was given against her 
accordingly. After this had been denounced, she openly 
denied all her former confessions, and died without any 
sign of repentance, offering repeated interruptions to the 
minister in his prayer, and absolutely refusing to pardon the 
executioner. 

This tragedy happened in the year 1613, and recorded as 
it is very particularly, and at considerable length, forms the 



36 SIE WALTEE SCOTT. 

most detailed specimen I have met with, of a Scottish trial 
for witchcraft, — illustrating, in particular, how poor wretches 
abandoned, as they conceived, by God and the world, de- 
prived of all human sympathy, and exposed to personal tor- 
tures of an acute description, became disposed to throw away 
the lives that were rendered bitter to them, by a voluntary 
confession of guilt, rather than struggle hopelessly against 
so many evils. Four persons here lost their lives, merely 
because the tlnrowing some clay models into the sea, a fact 
told differently by the witnesses who spoke of it, corresponded 
with the season, for no day was fixed, in which a particular 
vessel was lost. It is scarce possible that, after reading such 
a story, a man of sense can listen for an instant to the evi- 
dence founded on confessions thus obtained, which has been 
almost the sole reason by wliich a few individuals, even in 
modem times, have endeavored to justify a belief in the 
existence of witchcraft. 

The result of the judicial examination of a criminal, when 
extorted by such means, is the most suspicious of all evidence, 
and even when voluntarily given, is scarce admissible, with- 
out the corroboration of other testimony. 



ONE WORD MORE. 



TO E. B. B. 



By ROBERT BROWNING. 



rf IHERE they are, my fifty men and women 

I Naming me the fifty poems finished ! 
Take them, Love, the book * and me together. 
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. 

II. 

Rafael made a century of sonnets. 

Made and wrote them in a certain volmne 

Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil 

Else he only used to draw Madonnas : 

These, the world might view, — but One, the volume. 

Who that one, you ask ? Your heart instructs you. 

Did she live and love it all her lifetime ? 

Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets. 

Die, and let it drop beside her pillow 

WTiere it lay in place of RafaeFs glory, 

Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving, — 

Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, 

Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's ? 

* EeferriDg to his volupie of Poems entitled " Men and Women.' 



38 EGBERT BE OWNING. 

III. 

You and I would rather read that volume, 
(Taken to his beatmg bosom by it,) 
Lean and hst the bosom-beats of E-afael, 
Would we not ? than wonder at Madonnas — 
Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, 
Her, that visits Florence in a vision. 
Her, that 's left with lilies in the Louvre — 
Seen by us and all the world in circle. 

IV. 

You and I will never read that volume. 

Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple 

Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. 

Guido Reni dying, all Bologna 

Cried, and the world with it, " Ours — the treasure ! ' 

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 

V. 

Dante once prepared to paint an angel : 
Whom to please ? You whisper, " Beatrice." 
While he mused and traced it and retraced it, 
(Peradventure with a pen corroded 
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, 
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, 
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, 
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, 
Loosed liim, laughed to see the writing rankle, 
J^et the wretch go festering through Florence,) — 
Dante, who loved well because he hated, 
Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 
Dante standing, studying his angel, — 
In there broke the folk of his Liferno. 
Says he, " Certain people of importance " 



ONE WORD MORE. 39 

(Sucli lie gave his dafly, dreadful line to) 
Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet. 
Says the poet, " Then I stopped my painting." 

VI. 

You and I would rather see that angel, 
Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 
Would we not ? — than read a fresh Inferno. 

VII. 

You and I will never see that picture. 
While he mused on love and Beatrice, 
While he softened o'er his outlined angel. 
In they broke, those " people of importance " : 
We and Bice bear the loss forever. 

VIII. 

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture ? 

IX. 

This : no artist lives and loves that longs not 

Once, and only once, and for One only, 

(Ah, the prize !) to find his love a language 

Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — 

Using nature that 's an art to others. 

Not, this one time, art that 's turned his nature. 

Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 

None but would forego his proper dowry, — 

Does he paint ? he fain would write a poem, — 

Does he write ? he fain would paint a picture. 

Put to proof art alien to the artist's. 

Once, and only once, and for One only, 

So to be the man and leave the artist. 

Save the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. 



40 EGBERT BROWNING. 



Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's ahatement ! 
He who smites the rock and spreads the water, 
Bidding di-ink and live a crowd beneath him, 
Even he, the minute makes immortal. 
Proves, perchance, his mortal in the minute, 
Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
While he smites, how can he but remember. 
So he smote before, in such a peril. 
When they stood and mocked, " Shall smiting help us?" 
When they drank and sneered, " A stroke is easy ! " 
When they wiped their mouths and went theu' journey, 
Throwing him for thanks, " But drought was pleasant." 
Thus old memories mar the actual triumph ; 
Thus the doing savors of disreUsh ; 
Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat ; 
O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, 
Carelessness or consciousness, the gesture. 
For he bears an ancient wrong about him, 
' Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces. 
Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude, — 
" How should'st thou, of all men, smite, and save us ? " 
Guesses what is like to prove the sequel, — 
"Egypt's flesh-pots, — nay, the drought was better." 

XI. 

O, the crowd must have emphatic waiTant ! 
Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance. 
Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. 
Never dares the man put off the prophet. 

XII. 

Did he love one face from out the thousands, 
(Were she Jethro's daughter, wliite and wifely. 



OXE WORD MORE. 41 

Were she but tlie Ethiopian bondslave,) 

lie would envy yon dumb, patient camel, 

Keeping a reserve of scanty water « 

IMeant to save Lis own life in the desert ; 

Eeady in the desert to deliver 

(Kneelirg down to let his breast be opened) 

Hoard and life together for his mistress. 

XIII. 

I shall never, in the years remaining, 

Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, 

Make you music that should all-express me ; 

So it seems : I stand on my attainment. 

This of verse alone, one life allows me ; 

Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 

Other heights in other lives, God willing, — 

All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love ! 

XIV. 

Yet a semblance of resource avails us, — 

Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. 

Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, 

Lines I write the first time and the last time. 

He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, 

Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly. 

Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, 

I^Iakes a strange art of an art familiar, 

Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. 

He who blows through bronze, may breathe through silver, 

Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 

He who writes, may write for once, as I do. 

XV. 

Love, you saw me gather men and women, 
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy. 



42 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Enter each and all, and use tlieir service, 

Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a poem. 

Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, 

Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving : 

I am mine and yours, — the rest be all men's, 

Karshook, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty. 

Let me speak this once in my true person, 

Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, 

Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence, — 

Pray you, look on these my men and women, 

Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; 

Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also ! 

Poor the speech ; be how I speak, for all things. 

XYI. 

Not but that you know me ! Lo, the moon's self ! 
Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 
Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. 
Curving on a sky imbrued with color, 
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight. 
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. 
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, 
Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished. 
Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, 
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver. 
Goes dispmtedly, — glad to finish. 

XVII. 

What, there 's nothing in the moon noteworthy ? 
Nay, — for if that moon could love a mortal. 
Use, to charm him, (so to fit a fancy,) 
All her magic, ('t is the old sweet mythos,) 
She would turn a new side to her mortal, 



OXE WOED MOEE. 43 

Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman, — 

Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, 

Blind to Galileo on his turret, 

Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats, — him, even ! 

Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal, — 

When she turns round, comes again in heaven, 

Opens out anew for worse or better ? 

Proves she like some portent of an iceberg 

Swimming full upon the ship it founders. 

Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals ? 

Proves she as the paved-work of a sapphire 

Seen by Moses Avhen he climbed the mountain ? 

Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu 

Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, 

Stand upon the paved-work of a sapphire. 

Like the bodied heaven in his clearness 

Shone the stone, the sappliire of that paved-work, 

When they ate and di^ank and saw God also ! 

XVIII. 

What were seen ? None knows, none ever shall know. 

Only this is sure, — the sight were other, 

Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, 

Dying now impoverished here in London. 

God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 

Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, 

One to show a woman when he loves her. 

XIX. 

This I say of me, but think of you. Love ! 

This to you, — yourself my moon of poets ! 

Ah, but that 's the world's side, — there 's the wonder — 

Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you. 

There, in turn I stand with them and praise you, 



44 EGBERT BROWNING. 

Out of mj own self, I dare to phrase it. 
But the best is when I glide from out them, 
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, 
Come out on the other side, the novel 
Silent silver lights, and darks undreamed of, 
Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 



O, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 
O, their Dante of the dread Inferno, 
Wrote one song — - and in my brain I sing it. 
Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosom ! 



IN A SKYE BOTHY 



By ALEXANDER SMITH. 



MAN is an ease-loving animal, with a lingering affec- 
tion for Ai'cadian dales ; under the shadow of whose 
trees shepherd boys are piping " as they would never grow 
old." Human nature is a vagabond still, maugre the six 
thousand years of it, and amuses itself with di-eams of soci- 
eties free and unrestrained. It is tliis vasrabond feeling? 
in the blood which draws one so strongly to Shakespeare. 
That sweet and hberal nature of liis blossomed into all 
wild human generosities. "As You Like It" is a vaga- 
bond play ; and, verily, if there waved in any wind that 
blows upon the earth a forest, peopled as Arden's was in 
Shakespeare's imagination, with an exiled king drawing 
the sweetest, humanest lessons from misfortune, a melan- 
choly Jaques stretched by the river's brink, moralizing on 
the bleeding deer, a fair Rosalind chanting her saucy 
cuckoo song, fools like Touchstone (not like those of our 
acquaintance, reader), and the whole place from centre to 
circumference filled with mighty oak-bolls, all carven with 
lovers' names ; I would, be my worldly prospects what they 
may, pack up at once and join that vagabond company. For 
there I should find more gallant courtesies, finer sentiments, 
completer innocence and happiness, than I am like to dis- 
cover here, although I search for them from shepherd's cot 
to king's palace. Just to think how these people lived 



4G ALEXANDER SmiH. 

Carelessly as the blossoming trees, happily as the singing 
birds ; time measured only by the acorn's patter on the 
fruitful soil. A world without debtor or creditor ; passing 
rich, yet with never a doit in its purse ; with no sordid 
cares, no regard for appearances ; notliing to occupy the 
young but love-making; notliing to occupy the old but 
listening to the " sermons in stones," and perusing the 
musical wisdom which dwells in "running brooks." Ar- 
den forest, alas ! is not rooted in the earth : it draws 
sustenance from a poet's brain ; and the light asleep on 
its leafy billows is that " that yet never was seen on sea or 
shore." But one cannot help dreaming of such a place, and 
striving to approach as nearly as possible to its sweet 
conditions. 

I am quite alone here : England may have been invaded 
and London sacked for aught I know. Several weeks 
since, a newspaper, accidentally blown to my solitude, in- 
formed me that the Great Eastern had been got under 
weigh, and was then swinging at the Nore. There is great 
joy, I perceive. Human nature stands astonished at itself; 
felicitates itself on its remarkable talent, and will for 
months to come purr complacently over its achievement in 
magazines and reviews. A fine world, messieurs, that will 
attain to lieaven — if in the power of steam. A very fine 
world ; yet for all that, I have withdrawn from it for a 
time, and would rather not hear of its remarkable exploits. 
In my present mood I do not value them that coil of vapor 
on the brow of Blavin, which, as I gaze, smoulders into 
nothing in the fire of sunrise. 

Goethe, in liis memorable book, '■' Truth and Poetry," 
informs his readers that in his youtli he loved to shelter 
liimself in the Scripture narratives, from the marching and 
counter-marcliing of armies, the cannonading, retreating, 
and fighting, that lay everywhere around Mm. He shut 
his eyes, as it were, and a whole war-convulsed Em-ope 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 47 

wlieeled away into silence and distance, and in its place, 
lo ! tlie patriarchs, with their tawny tents, their man-ser- 
vants- and maid-servants, and countless flocks in impercep- 
tible procession whitening the Sj^ian plains. In this my 
green solitude, I appreciate the full sweetness of the pas- 
sage. Everytliing here is silent as the Bible plains them- 
selves. I am cut off from former scenes and associates as 
by the sullen Styx and the grim ferrying of Charon's boat. 
The noise of the world does not touch me. I live too fai' 
inland to hear the thunder of the reef. To this place no 
postman comes, no tax-gatherer. This region never heard 
the sound of the church-going bell. The land is pagan as 
when the yellow-haired Norseman landed a thousand years 
ago. I almost feel a pagan myself. Not using a notched 
stick, I have lost all count of time, and don't know Satur- 
day from Sunday. Civilization is like a soldier's stock; it 
makes you carry your head a good deal higher, makes the 
angels weep a little more at your fantastic tricks, and half 
suffocates you the while. I have thrown it away, and 
breathe freely. My bed is the heather, my mirror the 
stream from the hills, my comb and brush the sea-breeze, 
my watch the sun, my theatre the sunset, and my evening ser- 
vice — not without a rude natural religion in it — watcliing 
the pinnacles of the hills of Cuchullin sharpening in intense 
I^urple against the palhd orange of the sky, or listening to 
the melancholy voices of the sea-birds and the tide ; that 
over, I am asleep till touched by the earliest splendor of 
the dawn. I am, not without reason, hugely enamored of 
my vagabond existence. 

My bothy is situated on the shores of one of the lochs 
that intersect Skye. The coast is bare and rocky, hollowed 
into fantastic chambers : and when the tide is making, every 
cavern murmurs like a sea-shell. The land, from frequent 
rain green as emerald, rises into soft pastoral heights, and 
about a mile inland soars suddenly up into peaks of bas- 



48 ALEXA^^DER SMITH. 

tard marble, wliite as the cloud under wMcli tlie lark sings 
at noon, bathed in rosy light at sunset. In front are the 
Cuchullin hills and the monstrous peak of Blavin ; ' then 
the green Strath runs narrowing out to sea, and the Island 
of Rum, with a white cloud upon it, stretches like a gigan- 
tic shadow across the entrance of the loch, and completes 
the scene. Twice every twenty-four hours the Atlantic tide 
sets in upon hollowed shores ; twice is the sea withdi-awn, 
leaving spaces of green sand on which mermaids w^ith 
golden combs might sleek alluring tresses ; and black rocks, 
heaped with brown dulse and tangle, and lovely ocean 
blooms of purple and orange ; and bai'e islets, — marked 
at full of tide by a glimmer of pale-green amJd the univer- 
sal sparkle, — where most the sea-fowl love to congregate. 
To these islets, on favorable evenings, come the crows, and 
sit in sable parliament ; business despatched, they start into 
air as at a gun, and stream away through the sunset to 
their roosting-place in the Armadale woods. The shore 
supplies for me the place of books and companions. Of 
course Blavin and Cuchullin hills are the chief attractions, 
and I never weary watching them. In the morning they 
wear a great white caftan of mist ; but that lifts away before 
noon, and they stand with all their scars and passionate 
torrent-hnes bare to the blue heavens ; with perhaps a soli- 
tary shoulder for a moment gleaming wet to the sunhght. 
After a while a vapor begins to steam up from their abysses, 
gathering itself into strange shapes, knotting and twisting 
itself like smoke ; while above, the terrible crests are now 
lost, now revealed, in a stream of flying rack. In an hour 
a A\^all of rain, gray as granite, opaque as iron, stands up 
from the sea to heaven. The loch is roughening before 
the wind, and the islets, black dots a second ago, are 
patches of roaring foam. You hear the fierce sound of 
its coming. The lasliing tempest sweeps over you, and 
looking beliind, up the long inland glen, you can see on 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 49 

the birch woods, and on the sides of the hills^ di-iven on the 
wind, the white smoke of the rain. Though fierce as a 
charge of Highland bayonets, these squalls are seldom of 
long duration, and you bless them when you creep from 
your shelter, for out comes the sun, and the birch woods 
are twinkling, and more intensely flash the levels of the 
sea, and at a stroke the clouds are scattered from the wet 
brow of Blavin, and to the whole a new element is added, 
the voice of the swollen stream as it rushes over a hun- 
dred tiny cataracts, and roars river-broad into the sea, mak- 
ing turbid the azure. Then I have my amusements in 
this solitary place. The mountams are of course open, and 
this morning at dawn a roe swept past me like the wind, 
nose to the dewy ground, " tracking," they call it here. 
Above all, I can wander on the ebbed beach. Hogg 
speaks of that 

" Undefined and mingled hum, 
Voice of the desert, never dumb." 

But far more than the murmuring and insecty air of the 
moorland, does the wet cMrh-cfiirhing of the living shore 
give one the idea of crowded and multitudinous life. Did 
the reader ever hunt razor-fish? — not sport like tiger- 
hunting, I admit ; yet it has its pleasures and excitements, 
and can kill a forenoon for an idle man agreeably. On the 
wet sands yonder the razor-fish are spouting like the foun- 
tams at Versailles on a fete day. The sly fellow sinks on 
discharging his watery feu de joie. K you are quickly 
after him through the sand, you catch him, and then comes 
the tug of war. Address and dexterity are required. If 
you pull vigorously, he slips out of his sheath a " mother- 
naked" mollusk, and escapes. If you do your spiriting 
gently, you drag him up to light, a long, thin case, with a 
white fishy bulb protruding at one end like a root. Rinse 
him in sea-water, toss him into your basket, and plunge 

4 



50 , ALEXANDER SMITH. 

after another watery flash. These razor-fish are excellent 
eating, the people say ; and when used as bait, no fish that 
swims the ocean stream, cod, whiting, haddock, flat skate 
broad-shouldered, crimson bream, — not the detested dog- 
fish himself, this summer swarming in every loch and be- 
cursed by every fisherman, — can keep liimself ofi" the 
hook, and in an hour your boat is laden with glittering 
spoil. Then if you take your gun to the low islands, — 
and you can go dry-shod at ebb of tide, — you have your 
chance of sea-fowl. Gulls of all kinds are there, dookers 
and divers of every description; flocks of shy curlews, 
and specimens of a hundred tribes, to which my limited 
ornithological knowledge cannot furnish a name. The 
Solan goose yonder falls from heaven into the water like 
a meteor-stone. See the solitary scart, with long, narrow 
wing and outstretched neck, shooting toward some distant 
promontory ! Anon, high overhead, come wheeling a 
covey of lovely sea-swallows. You fii-e ; one fiutters down 
never more to skim the horizon or to dip in the sea 
sparkle. Lift it up ; is it not beautiful ? The wild keen 
eye is closed, but you see the delicate slate-color of the 
wings, and the long tail-feathers white as the creaming 
foam. There is a stain of blood on the breast, hardly 
brighter than the scarlet of its beak and feet. Lay it 
down, for its companions are dasliing round and round, 
uttering harsh cries of rage and sorrow ; and had you the 
heart, you could shoot them one by one. At ebb of tide 
wild-looking children, from turf-cabins on the hillside, come 
down to hunt shell-fish. Even now a troop is busy ; how 
their shrill voices go the while! Old Efiie, I see, is out 
to-day, quite a picturesque object with her white cap and 
red shawl. With a tin can in one hand, an old reaping- 
hook in the other, she goes poking among the tangle. Let 
us see what sport she has had. She turns round at our 
salutation, — very old, old almost as the worn rocks around. 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 51 

She miglit ha-? e been the wife of Wordsworth's " Leech- 
gatherer." Her can is sprawling with brown crabs ; and 
opening her apron, she exhibits a large black and blue 
lobster, — a fellow such as she alone can capture. A queer 
woman is Effie, and an awsome. She is familiar with 
ghosts and apparitions. She can relate legends that have 
power over the superstitious blood, and with little coaxing 
will sing those wild Gaelic songs of hers, — of dead Kghts 
on the sea, of fisliing-boats going down in squalls, of un- 
buried bodies tossing day and night upon the gray peaks 
of the waves, and of girls that pray God to lay them by 
the sides of their dro^vned lovers ; although for them should 
never rise mass nor chant, and although their flesh should 
be torn asunder by the wild fishes of the sea. 

Rain is my enemy here, and at this wiiting I am suffer- 
ing siege. For three days this rickety dwelling has stood 
assault of wind and rain. Yesterday a blast breached the 
door, and the tenement fluttered for a moment like an um- 
brella caught in a gust. All seemed lost, but the door was 
got to again, heavily barred across, and the enemy foiled. 
An entrance, however, had been effected ; and that por- 
tion of the attacking column which I had imprisoned by 
my dexterous manoeuvre, maddening itself into whirlwind, 
rushed up the chimney, scattering my turf fire as it went, 
and so escaped. Since that time the windy columns have 
retired to the gorges of the hills, where I hear them howl 
at intervals ; and the only thing I am exposed to is the 
musketry of the rain. How viciously the small shot pep- 
pers the walls ! Here must I wait till the cloudy arma- 
ment breaks up. One's own mind is a dull companion in 
these circumstances. Sheridan, — wont with his talk to 
brighten the table more than the champagne ; whose mind 
was a phosphorescent sea, dark in its rest, every movement 
a flash of splendor, — if cooped up here, begirt with this 
murky atmosphere, would be dull as a Lincoln fen unen- 



52 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

likened by a single will-o'-tlie-wisp. Books are the only 
refuge on a rainy day ; but in Skye Bothies books are rare- 
To me, however, the gods have proved kind, for in my sore 
need I found on a shelf here two volumes of the old 
Monthly Review, and have sauntered through these dingy 
literary catacombs with considerable satisfaction. What a 
strange set of old fogies the writers ! To read them is like 
conversing with the antediluvians. Their opinions have 
fallen into disuse long ago, and resemble to-day the rusty 
armor and gimcracks of a curiosity-shop. These essays 
and criticisms were thought brilliant, I suppose, when they 
appeared last century, and authors praised therein con- 
sidered themselves rather handsome flies, preserved in pure 
critical amber for the inspection of posterity. The volumes 
were pubHshed, I notice, from 1790 to 1792, and exliibit a 
period of wonderful literary activity. Not to speak of 
novels, liistories, travels, farces, tragedies, upwards of two 
hundred poems are brought to judgment. Plainly, these 
Monthly Reviewers worked hard, and on the whole with 
spirit and deftness. A proper sense of the importance of 
their craft had these gentlemen ; they laid down the law 
with great gravity, and from critical benches shook theii' 
awful wios on offenders. How it all looks now ! " Let us 
indulge ourselves with another extract," quoth one, " and 
contemplate once more the tear of grief before we are 
called upon to witness the tear of rapture." Both tears 
dried up long ago, as those that sparkled on a Pharaoh's 
cheek. Hear this other, stern as Rhadamanthus ; behold 
Duty steehng itself against human weakness ! " It grieves 
us to wound a young man's feelings ; but our judgment 
must not be biassed by any plea whatsoever. "Wliy will 
men apply for our opinion, when they know that we cannot 
be silent, and that we will not lie ? " Listen to this prophet 
in Israf^l, one who has not bent the knee to Baal, and say 
i( there is not a touch of hopeless pathos in him : " Fine 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 53 

avoids do not make fine poems. Scarcely a month passes 
in which we are not obliged to issue this decree. But in 
these days of universal heresy, om' decrees are no more 
respected than the Bulls of the Bishop of Rome." that 
men would hear, that they would incline their hearts to 
wisdom ! The ghosts of the dim literary Hades are get- 
ting tiresome, and as I look up, lo! the rain has ceased, 
from sheer fatigue : great white vapors are rising from the 
damp valleys ; and, better than all, pleasant as Blucher's 
cannon on the evening of Waterloo, the sound of wheels 
on the boggy ground ; and just when the stanched rain- 
clouds are . burning into a sullen red at sunset, I have a 
visitor in my Bothy, and pleasant human intercourse. 

Broadford Fair is a great event in the island. The little 
to^vn lies on the margin of a curving bay, and under the 
shadow of a somewhat celebrated hill. On the crest of it 
is a cairn of stones, the burying-place of an ancient Scan- 
dinavian woman, tradition informs me, whose wish it was 
to be laid high up there, that she might sleep right in the 
pathway of the Norway wind. In a green glen, at its base, 
stand the ruins of the House of Corrichatachin, where Bos- 
well had liis share of four bowls of punch, and went to bed 
at five in the morning, and, awakening at noon with a severe 
headache, saw Dr. Johnson burst in upon him with the 
exclamation, " What, drunk yet!" "His tone of voice w[.s 
not that of severe upbraiding," writes the penitent Bozzy, 
" so I was relieved a little." Broadford is a post-town of 
about a dozen houses, and is a place of great importance. 
If Portree is the London of Skye, Broadford is its Man- 
chester. The markets, held every thi-ee months or so, take 
place on a patch of moorland about a mile from the village. 
Not only are cattle sold and cash exchanged for the same, 
but there a Skye farmer meets his relations, from the brother 
of his blood to his cousin forty times removed. To these 
meetings he is drawn, not only by his love of coin, but by 



54 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

Ills love of kindred, and — tlie Broadford Mail and tiie 
Portree Advertiser lying yet in the womb of time — by bis 
love of gossip also. The market is the Skyeman's ex- 
change, his family gathering, and his newspaper. From 
the deep sea of his solitude he comes up to breathe there, 
and, refreshed, sinks again. This fair at Broadford I re- 
solved to see. Starting early in the morning, my way for 
the most part lay through a desolation where Nature seemed 
deteriorated, and at her worst. Winter could not possibly 
sadden the region ; no spring could quicken it into iowers. 
The hills wear but for ornament the white streak of the 
torrent; the rocky soil clothes itself in heather to which 
the pui'ple never comes. Even man, the miracle-worker, 
who transforms everytliing he touches, who has rescued a 
fertile Holland from the waves, who has reared a marble 
Venice from out salt lagunes and marshes, is defeated here. 
A turf hut, with smoke issuing from the roof, and a patch 
of sickly green around, which will ripen by November, is 
all that he has won from Nature. Gradually, as I pro- 
ceeded, the aspect of the country changed, began to ex- 
liibit traces of cultivation ; and erelong the red hill with 
the Norwegian woman's cairn a-top rose before me, sug- 
gesting Broadford and the close of the journey. The roads 
were filled with cattle, driven forward Avith oath and shout. 
Every now and then, a dog-cart came skirring along, and 
infinite the confusion, and loud the clamor of tongues, when 
one or other plunged into a herd of sheep, or skittish 
^' three-year-olds." At the entrance to the fair, the horses 
were taken out of the vehicles, and left, with a leathern 
thong tied round their forelegs, to limp about in search of 
breakfast. . As you advance, on either side of the road 
stand hordes of cattle, the wildest looking creatures, black, 
white, dun, and cream-colored, with fells of hair hanging 
over their savage eyes, and graced with horns of prepos- 
terous dimensions. Horses neighed from their stakes, the 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 55 

owners looking out for customers. Sheep were there, too, 
in restless masses, scattering hither and thither like quick- 
silver, with dogs and men flying along their edges, excited 
to the verge of insanity. What a hubbub of sound ! What 
lowing and neighing ! what bleating and barking ! It was 
a novel sight, that rude, primeval traffic. Down in the 
hollow ground tents had been knocked up since dawTi ; 
there potatoes v/ere being cooked for di'overs who had been 
travelHng all night; there, also, liquor could be had. To 
these places, I observed, contracting parties invariably re- 
paii'ed to solemnize a bargain. Booths ranged along the 
side of the. road were plentifully furnished with confections, 
ribbons, and cheap jewellery ; and as the morning wore on, 
around these the girls swarmed thickly, as bees round sum- 
mer flowers. The fair was running its full career of bar- 
gain-making and consequent dram-drinking, rude flirtation, 
and meeting of friend with friend, when up the middle of 
the road, hustling the passengers, terrifying the cattle, came 
three misguided young gentlemen — medical students, I 
opined — engaged in botanical researches in these regions. 
Evidently they had been "dwellers in tents." One of 
them, gifted with a comic genius, — his companions were 
desperately solemn, — at one point of the road, threw back 
his coat, in emulation of Sambo when he brings down the 
applauses of the tln-eepenny gallery, and executed a shuffle 
in front of a bewildered cow. ^ Crummie backed and shied, 
bent on retreat. He, agile as a cork, bobbed up and down 
in her front, turn whither she would, with shouts and hideous 
grimaces, his companions standing by the while like mutes 
at a funeral. That feat accomplished, the tria staggered 
on, amid the derision and scornful laughter of the Gael. 
Lifting our eyes up out of the noise and confusion, there 
were the solitary mountain-tops and the clear mirror of 
Broadford Bay, the opposite coast sleeping green in it with 
all its woods ; and lo ! the steamer from the South sliding 



56 ALEXAiNDER SMITH. 

in, with her red fuimel, breaking the reflection with a tract 
of foam, and disturbing the far-off morning silence with the 
thunder of her paddles. By noon, a considerable stroke of 
business had been done. Hordes of bello^ving cattle were 
being driven off toward Broadford, and drovers were rush- 
ing about in a wonderful manner, armed with tar-pot and 
stick, smearing their peculiar mark upon the shaggy hides 
of their purchases. Rough-looking customers enough, these 
fellows, yet they want not means. Some of them, I am 
told, came here this morning with five hundred pounds in 
their pocket-books, and have spent every paper of it, and 
this day three months they will return with as large a sum. 
By three o'clock in the afternoon the place was deserted 
by cattle, and fun and business gathered round the booths 
and refreshment tents, the noise increasing every hour, and 
towards evening deepening into brawl and general combat. 
During the last few weeks I have had opportunitj^ of wit- 
nessing something of life as it passes in the Skye wilder- 
nesses, and have been struck with its self-containedness, not 
less than with its remoteness. A Skye family has every- 
thing within itself. The bare mountains yield them mutton, 
of a flavor and delicacy unknown in the south. The copses 
swarm mth rabbits ; and if a net is set over night at the 
Black Island, there is abundance of fish to breakfast. The 
farmer grows his own corn, barley, and potatoes, digs his 
own peats, makes his own candles; he tans leather, spins 
cloth shaggy as a terrier's pile, and a hunchback artist on 
the place transforms the raw materials into boots or shep- 
lierd garments. Twice every year a huge hamper arrives 
from Glasgow, stuffed with all the little luxuries of house- 
keeping, — tea, sugar, coffee, and the like. At more fre- 
quent intervals comes a ten-gallon cask from Greenock, 
whose contents can cunningly draw the icy fangs of a north- 
easter, or take the chill out of the clammy mists. 
"What want tliey that a king should have? " 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 57 

And once a week tlie Inverness Courier, like a window sud- 
denly opened on the roaring sea, brings a mmmur of the 
outer worid, its politics, its business, its crimes, its literature, 
its whole' multitudinous and unsleeping life, making the 
stillness yet more still. To the Isle'sman the dial face of 
the year is not artificially divided, as in cities, by parlia- 
mentary session and recess, college terms or vacations, short 
and long, by the rising and sitting of courts of justice nor 
}^et, as in more fortunate soils, by imperceptible gradations 
of colored light, the green flowery year deepening into the 
sunset of the October hollyhock, the slow reddening of bur- 
dened orchards, the slow yellowing of wheaten plains. 
Not by any of these, but by the higher and more affecting 
element of animal life, with its passions and instincts, its 
gladness and suffering ; existence like our own, although in 
a lower key, and untouched by its solemn issues ; the same 
music and wail, although struck on ruder and uncertain 
chords. To the Isle'sman, the year rises mto interest 
when the hills, yet wet with melted snows, are pathetic 
with newly-yeaned lambs, and completes itself through the 
successive steps of weaning, fleecing, sorting, fattening, sale, 
final departure, and cash in pocket. The shepherd life is 
more interesting than the agricultural, inasmuch as it deals 
with a higher order of being ; for I suppose — apart from 
considerations of profit — a couchant ewe, with her you eg 
one at her side, or a ram, " with wreathed horns Jiuperb,'' 
cropping the herbage, is a more pleasing object to the aes- 
thetic sense than a field of mangold-wurzel, flourishing ever 
so gloriously. The shepherd inhabits a mountain country, 
lives more completely in the open air, and is acquainted 
with all phenomena of storm and calm, the thunder-smoke 
coiling in the wind, the hawk hanging stationary in the 
breathless blue. He knows the faces of the hills, recog- 
nizes the voices of the torrents as if they were children of 
his owTij can unknit their intricate melody, as he lies with 



58 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

his dog beside liim on the warm slope at noon, separating 
tone from tone, and giving this to iron crag, that to pebbly 
bottom. From long intercourse, every member of his flock 
wears to his eye its special individuality, and he recognizes 
the countenance of a " wether " as he would the counte- 
nance of a human acquaintance. Sheep-farming is a pic- 
turesque occupation; and I think a cataract of sheep de- 
scending a hillside, now gathering into a mighty pool, now 
emptying itself in a rapid stream, — the dogs, urged more 
by sagacity than by the shepherd's voice, flying along the 
edges, turning, guiding, changing the shape of the mass, — 
one of the prettiest sights in the world. But the most 
affecting incident of shepherd life is the weaning of the 
lambs ; — affecting, because it reveals passions in the " fleecy 
fools," the manifestation of which we are accustomed to 
consider ornamental in ourselves. From all the hills men 
and dogs drive the flocks down into a fold, ov fanh, as it 
is called here, consisting of several chambers or compart- 
ments. Into these compartments the sheep are huddled, 
and then the separation takes place. The ewes are re- 
turned to the mountains, the lambs are driven away to 
some spot where the pasture is rich, and where they are 
watched day and night. Midnight comes with dews and 
stars ; the troop is couched peacefully as the cloudlets of 
a summer sky. Suddenly they are restless, ill at ease, 
goaded by some sore unknown want, and evince a dispo- 
sition to scatter in every direction ; but the shepherds are 
wary, the dogs swift and sure, and after a little while the 
perturbation is allayed, and they rest again. "Walk up 
now to the fank. The full moon is riding between the 
hills, filling the glen with lustre and floating mysterious 
glooms. Listen ! You hear it on every side of you, till 
it dies away in the silence of distance, — the fleecy Rachel 
weeping for her children. The turf walls of the fank are 
in shadow, but something seems to be moving there. As 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 59 

you approach, it disappears with a quick, short bleat, and 
a hurry of tiny hooves. Wonderful mystery of instinct ! 
Affection all* the more touching that it is so wrapt in dark- 
ness, hardly knowing its own meaning ! For nights and 
nights the creatures will be found haunting about these 
tiu'fen walls, seeking the young that have been taken 
away. 

But my chief delight here is my friend and neighbor, 
Mr. Maclan. He was a soldier in liis youth : is now 
very old, — ninety and odd, I should say. He would 
strike one with a sense of strangeness in a city, and among 
men of the. present generation. Here, however, he creates 
no surprise ; he is a natural product of the region, like the 
red heather, or the bed of the dried torrent. He is a 
master of legendary lore. He Imows the liistory of every 
considerable family in the island ; he circulates like sap 
through every genealogical tree ; he is an enthusiast in 
Gaelic poetry, and is fond of reciting compositions of native 
bards, his eyes lighted up, and his tongue moving glibly 
over the rugged clots of consonants. He has a servant 
cunning upon the pipes, and, dwelling there for a week, I 
heard Ronald often wandering near the house, solacing 
hmiself with their music ; now a plaintive love-song, now 
a coronach for chieftain borne to liis grave, now a battle 
march, the notes of which, melancholy and monotonous at 
first, would all at once soar into a higher strain, and then 
hurry and madden as beating time to the footsteps of the 
charging clan. I am the fool of association ; and the tree 
under wliich a king has rested, the stone in which a banner 
was planted on the morning of some victorious or disas- 
trous day, the house in which some great man first saw the 
light, are to me the sacredest things. This slight, gi'ay, 
keen-eyed man — the scabbard sorely frayed now, the blade 
sharp and bright as ever — gives me a thrill like an old 
coin with its half obliterated e^gy, a Druid stone on a 



60 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

moor, a stain of blood on the floor of a palace. He stands 
before me a living figure, and history groups itself behind 
by way of background. He sits at the same board with 
me, and yet he hfted Moore at Corunna, and saw the gal- 
lant dying eyes flash up with their last pleasure when the 
Highlanders charged past. He lay down to sleep in the 
light of Wellington's watch-fires in the gorges of the piny 
Pyrenees ; around him roared the death thunders of Water- 
loo. There is a certain awfulness about very old men ; 
they are amongst us, but not of us. They crop out of the 
living soil and herbage of to-day, like rocky strata bearing 
marks of the glacier or the wave. Their roots strike 
deeper than ours, and they draw sustenance from an earher 
layer of soil. They are lonely amongst the young ; they 
cannot form new friendships, and are willing to be gone. 
They feel the " sublime attractions of the grave " ; for the 
soil of churchyards once flashed kind eyes on them, 
heard with them the chimes at midnight, sang and clashed 
the brimming goblet with them ; and the present Tom and 
Harry are as nothing to the Tom and Harry that swag- 
gered about and toasted the reigning belles seventy years 
ago. We are accustomed to lament the shortness of life ; 
but it is wonderful how long it is notwithstanding. Often a 
single life, like a summer twilight, connects two historic 
days. Count back four lives, and King Charles is kneeling 
on tlie scaffold at Whitehall. To hear Maclan speak, one 
could not help thinking in this way. In a short run across 
the mainland with him tliis summer, we reached CuUoden 
Moor. The old gentleman with a mournful air — for he is 
a great Jacobite, and wears the Prince's hair in a ring — 
pointed out the burial-grounds of the clans. Struck with 
his manner, I inquired how he came to know their red 
resting-places. As if hurt, he drew himself up, laid his 
hand on my shoulder, saying, " Those who put them in told 
me." Heavens, how a century and odd years collapsed, 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 61 

and the bloody field, — the battle-smoke not yet cleared 
away, and where Cumberland's artillery told the clansmen 
sleepmg in thickest swaths, — unrolled itself from the 
horizon down to my very feet ! For a whole evening he 
will sit and speak of his London life ; and I cannot help 
contrasting the young officer, who trod Bond Street with 
powder in his hair at the end of last century, mth the old 
man living in the shadow of Blavin now. *^ 

Dwellers in cities have occasionally seen a house that 
has the reputation of being haunted, and heard a ghost story 
told. Most of them have knowledge of the trumpet-blast 
that sounds when a member of the Airlie family is about 
to die. Some few may have heard of the Irish gentleman 
who, seated in the London opera-house on the night his 
brother died, heard above the clash of the orchestra and the 
passion of the singers, the shrill wsLvnmg keen of the banshee, 
— an evil omen always to him and his. City people laugh 
when these stories are told, even although the blood should 
run chill the while. Here, one is steeped in a ghostly at- 
mosphere : men walk about here gifted with the second 
sight. There has been sometliing weird and uncanny about 
the island for some centuries. Douglas, on the morning of 
Otterbourne, according to the ballad, was shaken mito super- 
stitious fears : — 

'' But I hac dreamed a dreary dream, 

Beyond the Isle of Skye ; 
I saw a dead man win a figlit, 

And I tliink that man was I." 

Then the island is full of strange legends of the Norwe- 
gian times and earlier, — legends it might be worth Mr. 
Dasent's while to take note of, should he ever visit the rainy 
Hebrides. One such legend, concerning Ossian and his 
poems, struck me a good deal. Near ]\Ir. Maclan's plkce 
is a ruined castle, a mere hollow shell of a building, Dun- 
scaith by nanje, built in Fmgalian days by the chieftain 



62 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

Cucliullin, and so called in honor of his wife. The pile 
crumbles over the sea on a rocky headland bearded by 
gray green lichens. The place is quite desolate, and sel- 
dom visited. The only sounds heard there are the sharp 
whistle of the salt breeze, the bleat of a strayed sheep, the 
cry of wheeling sea-birds. Maclan and myself sat one sum- 
mer day on the ruined stair. The sea lay calm and bright 
beneath, its expanse broken only by a creeping sail. Across 
the loch rose the great red liill, in the shadow of which 
Boswell got drunk ; on the top of which is perched the 
Scandinavian woman's cairn. And out of the bare blue 
heaven, down on the ragged fringe of the Coolin hills, flowed 
a great white vapor gathering in the sunhght in mighty 
fleece on fleece. The old gentleman was the narrator, and 
the legend goes as follows : — The castle was built by Cu- 
chullin and his Fingalians in a single night. The chief- 
tain had many retainers, was a great hunter, and terrible 
in war. Every night at feast the minstrel Ossian sang his 
exploits. Ossian, on one occasion, in wandering among the 
hills, was struck by sweet strains of music that seemed to 
issue from a green knoll on which the sun shone tempt- 
ingly. He sat down to listen, and was lulled asleep by 
the melody. He had no sooner fallen asleep than the Imoll 
opened, and he beheld the under-world of the fairies. That 
afternoon and the succeeding night he spent in revelry, 
and in the morning he was allowed to return. Again the 
music sounded, again the senses of the minstrel were steeped 
in forgetfulness. And on the sunny knoll he awoke a gray- 
haired man ; for in one short fairy afternoon and evening 
had been crowded a hundred of our human years. In his 
absence, the world had entirely changed, the Fingalians 
were extinct, and the dwarfish race, whom we call men, 
were possessors of the country. Longing for companion- 
sliip, Ossian married the daughter of a shepherd, and in 
process of time a little girl was born to him. Years passed 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 63 

on ; Ills wife died, and liis daughter, woman gi-own now, 
married a pious man, — for the people were Christianized 
by this time, — called, from his love of psalmody, Peter 
of the Psalms. Ossian, blind with age, went to reside with 
his daughter and her husband. Peter was engaged all 
day in hunting, and when he came home at evening, and 
when the lamp was lighted, Ossian, sitting in a warm 
corner, was wont to recite the wonderful songs of his 
youth, and to celebrate the mighty battles and hunting 
feats of the big-boned Fingalians. To these songs Peter 
of the !£*salms gave attentive ear, and being something of 
a penman, carefully inscribed them in a book. One day 
Peter had been more than usually successful in the chase, 
and brought home on his shoulders the carcass of a huge 
stag. Of this stag a leg was dressed for supper, and when 
it was picked bare, Peter triumphantly inquired of Ossian, 
" In the Fingalian days you speak about, killed you ever 
a stag so large as this ? " Ossian balanced the bone in 
his hand ; then, sniffing intense disdain, replied, " This 
bone, big as you think it, could be dropped into the hollow 
of a Fingalian blackbird's leg." Peter of the Psalms, en- 
raged at what he conceived an unconceivable crammer on 
the part of his father-in-law, started up, swearing that he 
would not ruin his soul by preserving any more of his 
lying songs, and flung the volume in the fire ; but his wife 
darted forward and snatched it up, half-charred, from the 
embers. At this conduct on the part of Peter, Ossian 
groaned in spirit, and wished to die, that he might be 
saved from the envy and stupidities of the little people, 
whose minds were as stunted as their bodies. When he 
went to bed he implored his ancient gods — for he was 
a sad heathen — to resuscitate, if but for one hour, the 
hounds, the stags, and the blackbu^ds of his youth, that he 
might astonish and confound the unbelieving Peter. His 
prayers done, he fell on slumber, and just before dawn a 



64 ALEXANDER SMITH. 

weight upon his breast awoke him. To his great joy, he 
found that his prayers were answered, for upon his breast 
was crouched . his favorite hound. He spoke to it, and the 
fliitliful creature whimpered and licked his face. Swiftly 
he called his little grandson, and they went out with the 
hound. "When they came to the top of an eminence, Ossian 
said, " Put your fingers in your ears, little one, else I 
will make you deaf for life." The boy put his fingers in 
his ears, and then Ossian whistled so loud that the whole 
world rang. He then asked the child if he saw anything. 
'' 0, such large deer ! " said the child. " But a small herd, 
by the sound of it," said Ossian ; " we will let that herd 
pass." Presently the child called out, " 0, such large 
deeri" Ossian bent his ear to the ground to catch the 
sound of their coming, and then, as if satisfied, let slip 
the hound, who speedily tore down seven of the fattest. 
When the animals were skinned and laid in order, Ossian 
went towards a large lake, in the centre of which grew a 
lemarkable bunch of rushes. He w^aded into the lake, 
tore up the rushes, and brought to light the great Finga- 
lian kettle, which had lain there for more than a century. 
Returning to their quarry, a fire was kindled ; the kettle 
containing the •seven carcasses was placed thereupon; and 
soon a most savory smell was spread abroad upon all the 
winds. When the animals were stewed, after the approved 
fashion of his ancestors, Ossian sat down to his repast. 
jSToav as, since his sojourn with the fairies, he had never 
enjoyed a sufficient meal, it was his custom to gather up 
the superfluous folds of his stomach by wooden sphnts, 
nine m number. As he now fed and expanded, splint 
after splint was thrown away, till at last, when the kettle 
was emptied, he lay do^vn perfectly satisfied, and silent as 
"ocean at the full of tide. Recovering himself, he gathered 
all the bones together, — set fire to them, tiU the black 
smoke wliich arose darkened the heaven. " Little one," 



IN A SKYE BOTHY. 65 

then said Osslan, '' go up to the knoll, and tell me if you 
see anything." "A great bird is flying liither," said the 
child; and immediately the great Fingalian blackbird 
alighted at the feet of Ossian, who at once caught and 
throttled it. The fowl was carried home, and was in the 
evening dressed for supper. After it was devoured, Ossian 
called for the stag's thigh-bone which had been the original 
cause of quarrel, and, before the face of the astonished and 
convicted Peter of the Psalms, dropped it in the hollow of 
the blackbird's leg. Ossian died on the night of his tri- 
umph, and the only record of his songs is the volume which 
Peter in his rage threw into the fire, and from which, when 
half consumed, it was rescued by his wife. 

I am to stay with Mr. Maclan to-night. A wedding has 
taken place up among the hills, and the whole party have 
been asked to make a night of it. The mighty kitchen has 
been cleared for the occasion ; torches are stuck up ready 
to be lighted ; and I already hear the first mutterings of 
the bagpipe's storm of sound. The old gentleman wears 
a look of brightness and hilarity, and vows that he will 
lead off the first reel with the bride. Everything is pre- 
pared ; and even now the bridal party are coming down 
the steep hill road. I must go out to meet tliem. To-mor- 
row I return to my bothy, to watch the sunny mists congre- 
gating on the crests of Blavin in radiant billow on billow, 
and on which the level heaven seems to lean. 



RUINS 



By JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 

EAETH is a waste of ruins ; so I deemed, 
Wlien the broad sun was sinking in the sea 
Of sand that; rolled around Palmyra. Night 
Shared with, the dying day a lonely sky, 
The canopy of regions void of life. 
And still as one interminable tomb. 
The shadows gathered on the desert, dark 
And darker, till alone one purple arch 
Marked the far place of setting. All above 
Was purely azure, for no moon in heaven 
V/alked in her brightness, and with snowy light 
Softened the dteep intensity, that gave 
Such awe unto the blue serenity 
Of the high throne of gods, the dwelling-place 
Of suns and stars, wliich are to us as gods, 
The fountains of existence and the seat 
Of all we dream of glory. Dim and vast 
The ruins stood around me, — temples, fanes, 
Where the bright sun was worshipped, — where they gave 
Homage to Him who frowns in storms, and rolls 
The desert like an ocean, — where they bowed 
Unto the queen of beauty, she in heaven 
Who gives the night its loveliness, and smiles 
Serenely on the drifted waste, and lends 



EUINS. 67 

A silver softness to tlie ridgy wave 
Where the dark Arab sojourns, and \Yith talcs 
Of love and beauty wears the tranquil night 
In poetry away, her light the while 
Falling upon him, as a spii'it falls, 
Dove-hke or curhng down in flame, a star 
Sparkling amid his flowing locks, or dews 
That melt in gold, and steal into the hesa% 
Makmg it one enthusiastic glow. 
As if the God were present, and his voice 
Spake on the eloquent lips that pour abroad 
A gush of inspii-ation, — bright as waves 
Swelling around Aurora's car, intense 
With passion as the fire that ever flows 
In fountains on the Caspian shore, and full 
As the wide-rolling majesty of Nile. 

Over these temples of an age of wild 
And dark belief, and yet magnificent 
In all that strikes the senses, — beautiful 
In the fair forms they knelt to, and the domes 
And pillai'S which upreared them, — full of Hfe 
In their poetic festivals, when youth 
Gave loose to all its energy, in dance. 
And song, and every charm the fancy weaves 
In the soft twine of cultui-ed speech, attuned 
In perfect concord to the full-toned lyre : 
When nations gathered to behold the pomp 
That issued from the hallowed shrine in choirs 
Of youths, who bounded to the minstrelsy 
Of tender voices, and all instruments 
Of ancient harmony, in solemn trains 
Bearing the votive offerings, flowing horns 
Of plenty wreathed with flowers, and gushing o'er 
With the ripe clusters of the purple vine, 



68 JAMES GATES PEE CIV AL. 

The violet of the fig, the scarlet flush 
Of granates peeping from the parted rind, 
The citron shining through its glossy leaves 
In burnished gold, the carmine veiled in down, 
Like mountain snow, on which the living stream 
Flowed from Astarte's minion, all that hang 
In Eastern gardens blended, — while the sheaf 
Nods with its loaded ears, and brimming bowls 
Foam with the kindhng element, the joj 
Of banquet, and the nectar that inspires 
Man with the glories of a heightened power 
To feel the touch of beauty, and combine 
The scattered forms of elegance, till high 
Rises a magic vision, blending all 
That we have seen of glory, such as drew 
Assembled Greece to worship, when the form, 
Who gathered all its loveliness, arose 
Dewy and blushing from the parent foam, 
Than which her tint was fairer, and with hand 
That seemed of living marble parted back 
Her raven locks, and upward looked to Heaven, 
Smiling to see all Nature bright and calm ; — 
Over these temples, whose long colonnades 
Are parted by the hand of time, and fall 
Pillar by pillar, block by block, and strew 
The ground in shapeless ruin, night descends 
Unmingled, and the many stars shoot through 
The gaps of broken walls, and glance between 
The shafts of tottering columns, marking out 
Obscurely, on the dark blue sky, the form 
Of Desolation, who hath made these piles 
Her home, and, sitting with her folded wings, 
Wraps in her dusty robe the skeletons 
Of a once countless multitude, whose toil 
Reared palaces and theatres, and brought 



EUINS. 69 

All tlie fair forms of Grecian art to give 
Glory unto an island girt with sands 
As barren as the ocean, where the grave 
And stately Doric marked the solemn fane 
Where wisdom dwelt, and on the fairer shrine 
Of beauty sprang the light Ionian, wreathed 
With a soft volute, whose simplicity 
Becomes the deity of loveliness. 
Who with her snowy mantle, and her zone 
Woven with all attractions, and her locks 
Flowing as Nature bade them flow, compels 
The sterner Powers to hang upon her smiles. 
And there the grand Corinthian lifted high 
Its flowery capital, to crown the porch 
Where sat the sovereign of their hierarchy. 
The monarch armed with terror, whose curled locks 
Shaded a brow of thought and Aitq resolve, 
Wliose eye, deep sunk, shot out its central fires, 
To blast and wither all who dared confront 
The gaze of highest power ; so sat their kings 
Enshrined in palaces, and when they came 
Thundering on their triumphal cars, all bright 
With diadem of gold, and purple robe 
Flashing with gems, before their rushing train 
Moving in serried columns fenced in steel, 
The herd of slaves obsequious sought the dust, 
And gazed not as the mystic pomp rolled by. 
Such were thy monarchs, Tadmor ! now thy streets 
Are silent, and thy walls o'erthrown, no voice 
Speaks tlii'ough the long dim night of years, to tell 
These were once peopled dwellings ; I could dream 
Some sorcerer in his moonlight wanderings reared 
These wonders in an hour of sport, to mock 
The stranger with the show of life, and send 
Thought through the mist of ages, in the search 



70 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. 

Of nations who are now no more, who lived 

Erst in the pride of empire, ruled and swayed 

Millions in their supremacy, and toiled 

To pile these monuments of wealth and skill, 

That here the wandering tribe might pitch its tents 

Securer in thek empty courts, and we. 

Who have the sense of greatness, low might kneel 

To ancient mind, and gather from the torn 

And scattered fragments visions of the power, 

And splendor, and sublimity of old. 

Mocking the grandest canopy of heaven, 

And imaging the pomp of gods below. • 




Q.yf7?/77-Ziy 'f!7y?n^..^^k29z/^. 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 

(fkom a letter.) 
By MRS. JAMESON. 

I WILL here put together some recollections of my own 
child-hfe ; not because it was in any respect an excep- 
tional or remarkable existence, but for a reason exactly the 
reverse, because it was hke that of many children ; at least 
I have met with many childi'en who throve or suffered fl'om 
the same or similar unseen causes even under external con- 
ditions and management every way dissimilar. Facts, there- 
fore, which can be relied on, may be generally useful as 
hints towards a theory of conduct. What I shall say here 
shall be simply the truth so far as it goes ; not something 
between the false and the true, garnished for effect, — not 
something half remembered, half imagined, — but plain, ab- 
solute, matter of fact. 

No ; certainly I was not an extraordinary child. I have 
had something to do -with children, and have met with 
several more remarkable for quiclmess of talent and pre- 
cocity of feeling. If anything in particular, I believe I was 
pai'ticularly naughty, — at least so it was said twenty times 
a day. But looking back now, I do not think I was par- 
ticular even in this respect ; I perpetrated not more than 
the usual amount of mischief — so called — which every 
lively, active child perpetrates between five and ten years 
old. I had the usual desire to know, and the usual dish> c 



72 MRS. JAMESON. 

to learn ; tlie usual love of fairy-tales, and hatred of French 
exercises. But not of what I learned, but of what I did not 
learn ; not of what they taught me, but of what they could 
not teach me ; not of what was open, apparent, manageable, 
but of the under-current, the hidden, the unmanaged or 
unmanageable, I have to speak, and you, my friend, to hear 
and turn to account, if you will, and how you will. As we 
grow old the experiences of infancy come back upon us 
with a strange vividness. There is a period when the over- 
flowing, tumultuous life of our youth rises up between us 
and those first years ; but as the torrent subsides in its bed, 
we can look across the impassable gulf to that haunted fairy- 
land wliich we shall never more approach, and never more 
forget ! 

In memory I can go back to a very early age. I per- 
fectly remember being sung to sleep, and can remember 
even the tune wliich was sang to me, — blessings on the 
voice that sang it ! I was an affectionate, but not, as I now 
think, a lovable nor an attractive cliild. I did not, like the 
little Mozart, ask of every one around me, " Do you love 
me ? " The instinctive question was, rather, " Can I love 
you ? " Yet certainly I was not more than six years old 
when I suffered from the fear of not being loved where I 
had attached myself, and from the idea that another was 
preferred before me, such anguish as had nearly killed me. 
Whether those around me regarded it as a fit of ill-temper, 
or a fit of illness, I do not know. I could not then have 
given a name to the pang that fevered me. I knew not the 
cause, but never forgot the suffering. It left a deeper 
impression than childish passions usually do ; and the recol- 
lection was so far salutary, that in after life I guarded 
myself against the approaches of that hateful, deformed, 
agonizing tiling which men call jealousy, as I w^Duld from 
an attack of cramp or cholera. If such self-knowledge has 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 73 

not saved me from tlie pain, at least it has saved me from 
the demoralizmg effects of the passion, by a wholesome 
terror, and even a sort of disgust. 

With a good temper, there was the capacity of strong, 
deep, silent resentment, and a vindictive spirit of rather a 
peculiar kind. I recollect that when one of those set over 
me inflicted what then appeared a most horrible injury 
and injustice, the thoughts of vengeance haunted my fancy 
for months ; but it was an inverted sort of vengeance. 
I imagined the house of my enemy on fire, and rushed 
through the flames to rescue her. She was drowning, and 
I leaped into the deep water to draw her forth. She was 
pining in prison, and I forced bars and bolts to deliver her. 
If this were magnanimity, it was not the less vengeance ; 
for, observe, I always fancied evil, and shame, and humilia- 
tion to my adversary; to myself the role of superiority and 
gi-atified pride. For several years this sort of burning re- 
sentment against wrong done to myself and others, though it 
took no mean or cruel form, was a source of intense, mitold 
suffering. No one was aware of it. I was left to settle it ; 
and my mind righted itself I hardly know how; not cer- 
tainly by religious influences, — they passed over my mind, 
and did not at the time sink into it, — and as for earthly 
counsel or comfort, I never had either when most needed. 
And as it fared with me then, so it has been in after life ; so 
it has hQQi\, must be, with all those who, m fighting out alone 
the pitched battle between principle and passion, will accept 
no intervention between the infinite within them and the 
infinite above them ; so it has been, must be, with all strong 
natures. Will it be said, that victory in the struggle brings 
increase of strength ? It may be so with some who survive 
tlie contest ; but then, how many sink ! how many are crip- 
pled morally for life ! how many, strengthened in some par- 
ticular faculties, suffer in losing the harmony of the char- 
acter as a whole ! This is one of the points in which the 



74 MRS. JAMESON. 

matured mind may help the cMldisli nature at strife Mdth 
itseK It is impossible to say how far tliis sort of vindictive- 
ness might have penetrated and hardened into the char- 
acter, if I had been of a timid or retiring nature. It was 
expelled at last by no outer influences, but by a growing 
sense of power and self-reliance. 

In regard to truth — always such a difficulty in education 
— ■ I certainly had, as a child, and like most children, con- 
fused ideas about it. I had a more distinct and absolute 
idea of honor than of truth, — a mistake into which our 
conventional morality leads those who educate and those 
who are educated. I knew very well, in a general way^ 
that to tell a lie was wicked; to lie for my own profit or 
pleasure, or to the hurt of others, was, according to my 
infant code of morals, worse than wicked, — it was dishonor- 
able. But I had no compunction about telling fictions ; 
inventing scenes and circumstances which I related as real, 
and with a keen sense of triumphant enjojniient in seeing 
the listener taken in by a most artful and ingenious concate- 
nation of impossibilities. In this respect " Ferdinand Men- 
dez Pinto, that liar of the first magnitude," was nothing in 
comparison to me. I must have been twelve years old 
before my conscience was first awakened up to a sense of 
the necessity of truth as a principle, as well as its holiness 
as a virtue. Afterwards, having to set right the minds of 
others cleared my own mind on this and some other impor- 
tant points. 

I do not think I was naturally obstinate, but remember 
going without food all day, and being sent hungry and 
exhausted to bed, because I would not do some trifling 
thing required of me. I think it was to recite some lines 
I knew by heart. I was punished as wilfully obstinate ; 
but what no one knew then, and what I know now as the 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 75 

fact, was, tliat after refusing to do what was require i, and 
bearing anger and threats in consequence, I lost the power 
to do it. I became stone : the luill was petrified, and I 
absolutely could not comply. They might have hacked me 
in pieces, before my lips could have unclosed to utterance. 
The obstinacy was not in the mind, but on the. nerves ; and 
I am persuaded that what we call obstinacy in childi-en, 
and grown-up people too, is often sometliing of this kind, 
and that it may be increased by mismanagement, by per- 
sistence, or what is called firmness in the controlling power, 
into disease, or something near to it. 

There was in my childish mind another cause of suffer- 
ing besides those I have mentioned, less acute, but more 
permanent, and always unacknowledged. It was fear, — 
fear of darkness and supernatural influences. As long as 
I can remember anything, I remember these horrors of my 
infancy. How they had been awakened I do not know ; 
they were never revealed. I had heard other children 
ridiculed for such fears, and held my peace. At first these 
haunting, thrilling, stifling terrors were vague ; afterwards 
the form varied ; but one of the most pennanent was the 
ghost in Hamlet. There was a volume of Shakespeare 
lying about, in which was an engraving I hf„ve not seen 
since, but it remains distinct in my mind as a picture. On 
one side stood Hamlet with his hair on end, literally " like 
quills upon the fretful porcupine," and one hand with all 
the fingers outspread. On the other strided the ghost, 
encased in armor with nodding plumes ; one finger point- 
ing forwards, and all surrounded with a supernatural light. 

that spectre ! for three years it followed me up and 
down the dark staircase, or stood by my bed : only the 
blessed light had power to exorcise it. How it was that 

1 knew, while I trembled and quaked, that it was unreal, 
never cried cut, never expostulated, never confessed, I do 



76 MRS. JAMES ox. 

not know. The figure of Apollyon looming over Christian, 
\vliich I had found in an old edition of the '' Pilgrim's 
Progress," was also a great torment. But worse, perhaps, 
were certain phantasms without shape, — things like the 
vision in Job, — " ^ spirit passed before my face ; it stood 
still, hut I could not discern the form thereof ^^ : — and if 
not intelligible voices, there were strange, unaccountable 
sounds filling the air around with a sort of mysterious life. 
In daylight I was not only fearless, but audacious, inclined 
to defy all power and brave all danger, — that is, all danger 
I could see. I remember volunteering to lead the way 
through a herd of cattle (among which was a dangerous 
bull, the terror of the neighborhood) armed only with a 
little stick ; but first I said the Lord's Prayer fervently. 
In the ghastly night I never prayed ; terror stifled prayer. 
These visionary suiferings, in some form or other, pursued 
me till I was nearly twelve years old. If I had not pos- 
sessed a strong constitution and a strong understanding, 
wliich rejected and contemned my own fears, even while 
they shook me, I had been destroyed. How much weaker 
children suffer in tliis way I have since known, and have 
kno^vn how to bring them help and strength, through sym- 
pathy and knowledge, — the sympathy that soothes, and 
does not encourage, the knowledge that dispels, and does 
not suggest, the evil. 

People, in general, even those who have been much in- 
terested in education, are not aware of the sacred duty of 
tridh^ exact truth in their intercourse with children. Limit 
what you tell them according to the measure of their fac- 
ulties ; but let what you say be the truth. Accuracy, not 
merely as to fact, but well-considered accuracy in the use 
of words, is essential with children. I have read some 
wise book on the treatment of the insane, in which absolute 
veracity and accuracy in speaking is prescribed as a cura- 
tive principle ; and deception for any purpose is deprecated 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 77 

as almost fatal to the health of the patient. Now, it is a 
good sanitary principle, that what is curative is preventive ; 
and that an unhealthy state of mind, leadhig to madness, 
may, in some organizations, be induced by that sort of 
uncertainty and perplexity which grows up where the mind 
has not been accustomed to truth in its external relations. 
It is like breathing for a continuance an impure or con- 
fined air. 

Of the mischief that may be done to a childish mind by 
a falsehood uttered in thoughtless gayety, I remember an 
absurd and yet a painful instance. A visitor was tm-ning 
over, for a little girl, some prints, one of which represented 
an Indian widow springing into the fire kindled for the 
funeral pile of her husband. It was thus explained to 
the cliild, who asked, innocently, whether, if her father 
died her mother would be burned ? The person to whom 
the question was addressed, a lively, amiable woman, was 
probably much amused by the question, and answered 
giddily, " 0, of course, — certamly ! " and was believed 
implicitly. But thenceforth, for many weary months, the 
mind of that cliild was haunted and tortured by the image 
of her mother springing into the devouring flames, and 
consumed by fire, with all the accessories of the picture, 
particularly the drunis beating to drown her cries. In a 
weaker organization, the results might have been perma- 
nent and serious. But to proceed. 

These terrors I have described had an existence ex- 
ternal to myself: I had no power over them to shape 
them by my wiU, and their power over me vanished 
gradually before a more dangerous infatuation, — the pro- 
pensity to reverie. The shaping spirit of imagination be- 
gan when I was about eight or nme years old to haunt 
my inner life. I can truly say that, from ten years old to 
fourteen or fifteen, I lived a double existence ; one out- 
ward, hnking me with the external sensible world, the 



78 MRS. JAMESON. 

other inward, creating a world to and for itself, conscious 
to itself only. I carried on for whole years a series of 
actions, scenes, and adventures ; one springing out of an- 
other, and colored and modified by increasing knowledge. 
This habit grew so upon me, that there were moments — 
as when I came to some crisis in my imaginary adven- 
tures — when I was not more awake to outward things 
than in sleep, — scarcely took cognizance of the beings 
around me. When punished for idleness by being placed 
in solitary confinement (the worst of all punishments for 
children), the intended penance was nothing less than a 
delight and an emancipation, giving me up to my dreams. 
I had a very strict and very accomplished governess, one 
of the cleverest women I have ever met with in my life ; 
but nothing of tills was known or even suspected by her, 
and I exulted in possessing some tiling which her power 
could not reach. My reveries were my real life : it was 
an unhealthy state of things. 

Those who are engaged in the training of children will 
perhaps pause here. It may be said, in the first place, 
How are we to reach those recesses of the inner life 
which the God who made us keeps from every eye but his 
own ? As when we walk over the field in spring we are 
aware of a thousand influences and processes at work of 
which we have no exact knowledge or clear perception, 
yet must watch and use according, — so it is with educa- 
i ion. And, secondly, it may be asked, if such secret pro- 
cesses be woiidng unconscious mischief, where the remedy ? 
The remedy is in employment. Then the mother or the 
teacher echoes, with astonishment, " Employment ! the child 
is employed from morning till night; she is learning a 
dozen sciences an.d languages ; she has masters and lesson? 
for every hour of every day ; with her pencil, her piano, 
her books, her companions, her birds, her flowers, — what 
can she want more ? " An' energetic child even at a very 



A EEVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 79 

early age, and yet further as the physical organization is 
developed, wants something more and something better; 
employment which shall bring with it the bond of a higher 
duty than that which centres in self and self-improvement ; 
employment which shall not merely cultivate the under- 
standing, but strengthen and elevate the conscience ; em- 
ployment for the higher and more generous faculties ; 
employment addressed to the sympathies ; employment 
which has the aim of utihty, not pretended, but real, ob- 
vious, direct utility. A giid who as a mere child is not 
always being taught or being amused, whose mind is early 
restrained by the bond of definite duty, and thrown out of 
the Hmit of self, will not in after years be subject to fancies 
that disturb or to reveries that absorb, and the present and 
the actual ^vill have that power they ought to have as com- 
bined in due degree with desire and anticipation. 

The Eoman Catholic priesthood understand this well 
employment, which enhsts with the spiritual the sympa- 
thetic part of our being, is a means through which they 
guide both young and adult minds. Physicians who have 
to manage various states of mental and moral disease un- 
derstand this well ; they speak of the necessity of employ- 
ment (not mere amusement) as a curative means, but of 
employment with the direct aim of usefulness, apprehended 
and appreciated by the patient, else it is nothing. It is 
the same "with children. Such employment, chosen with 
reference to utility, and in harmony with the faculties, 
would prove in many cases either preventive or curative. 
In my own case, as I now think, it would have been both. 

There was a time when' it was thought essential that 
women should know something of cookery, something of 
medicine, something of surgery. If all these things are 
far better understood now than heretofore, is that a reason 
why a well-educated woman should be left whoUy ignorant 
of them ? A knowledge of what people call " common 



80 MRS. JAMESON. 

tilings," — of the elements of physiology, of the conditions 
of health, of the qualities, nutritive or remedial, of sub- 
stances commonly used as food or medicine, and the most 
economical and the most beneficial way of applying both, — 
these should form a part of the system of every girls' 
school, — whether for the higher or the lower classes. At 
present you shall see a girl studying chemistry, and attend- 
ing Faraday's lectures, who would be puzzled to compound 
a rice-pudding or a cup of barley-water: and a girl who 
could Avork quickly a complicated sum in the Rule of Three, 
afterwards wasting a fourth of her husband's wages through 
want of management. 

In my own case, how much of the practical and sympa- 
thetic in my nature was exhausted in airy visions ! 

As to the stuff out of which my waking dreams were' 
composed, I cannot tell you much. I have a remembrance 
that I was always a princess heroine in the disguise of a 
knight, a sort of Clorinda or Britomart, going about to re- 
dress the wrongs of the poor, fight giants and kill di^agons ; 
or founding a society in some far-off solitude or desolate 
island, which would have rivalled that of Gonsalez, where 
there were to be no tears, no tasks, and no laws, — except 
those which I made myself, — no caged birds nor tormented 
kittens. 

Enough of the pains, and mistakes, and vagaries of 
childhood ; let me tell of some of its pleasures equally un- 
guessed and unexpressed. A great, an exquisite source of 
enjoyment arose out of an early, instinctive, boundless de 
light in external beauty. How this went hand in hand with 
my terrors and reveries, how it could coexist with them, I 
cannot teU now — it was so ; and if this sympathy with the 
external, Hving, beautiful world had been properly, scien- 
tifically cultivated, and directed to useful definite purposes, 
it \^ould have been the best remedy for much that was mor- 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 81 

bid ; tliis was not the case, and we were, unhappily for me, 
too early removed from the country to a town residence. I 
can remember, however, that in very early years the appear- 
ances of nature did truly " haunt me like a passion " ; the 
stars were to me as the gates of heaven ; the roUing of the 
wave to the shore ; the graceful weeds and grasses bending 
before the breeze as they grew by the wayside ; the minute 
and delicate forms of insects ; the trembling shadows of 
boughs and leaves dancing on the ground in -the highest 
noon ; — these were to me perfect pleasures, of which the 
imagery now in my mind is distinct. Wordsworth's poem 
of " The Daffodils," — the one beginning 

" I wandered lonely as a cloud," — 

may appear to some unintelligible or overcharged, but to me 
it was a vivid truth, a simple fact ; and if Wordsworth had 
been then in my hands, I tliink I must have loved him. It 
was this intense sense of beauty which gave the first zest to 
poetry : I loved it, not because it told me what I did not 
know, but because it helped me to words in which to clothe 
my own knowledge and perceptions, and reflected back the 
pictures unconsciously hoarded up in my mind. This was 
what made Thomson's " Seasons " a favorite book when I. 
first began to read for my own amusement, and before I 
could understand one half of it ; St. Pierre's " Indian Cot- 
tage" ("La Chaumiere Indienne") was also charming, . 
either because it reflected my dreams, or gave me new stuff 
for them in pictm-es of an external world quite different 
from that I inhabited, — palm-trees, elephants, tigers, dark- 
turbaned men with flowing draperies; and the "Arabian 
Nights " completed my Oriental intoxication, which lasted 
for a long time. 

I have said Httle of the impressions left by books, and of 
my first religious notions. A friend of mine had once the 
wise idea of collecting together a variety of evidence as to 



82 MRS. JAMESON. 

the impressions left by certain books on cliildisli or imma- 
ture minds. If carried out, it would have been one of the 
most valuable additions to educational experience ever made. 
For myself, I did not much care about the books put into 
my hands, nor imbibe much information from them. I had 
a great taste, I am sorry to say, for forbidden books ; yet it 
was not the forbidden books that did the mischief, except in 
their being read furtively. I remember impressions of vice 
and cruelty from some parts of the Old Testament and 
Goldsmith's " History of England," which I shudder to re- 
call. Shakespeare was on the forbidden shelf. I had read 
him all through between seven and ten years old. He 
never did me any moral miscliief. He never soiled my 
mind with any disordered image. What was exceptionable 
and coarse in language I passed by without attaching any 
meaning whatever to it. How it might have been if I had 
read Shakespeare first when I was fifteen or sixteen, I do 
not know; perhaps the occasional coarseness and obscuri- 
ties might have shocked the delicacy or puzzled the intelli- 
gence of that sensitive and inquiring age. But at nine or 
ten I had no comprehension of what was unseemly ; what 
might be obscure in words to wordy commentators, was to 
me lighted up by the idea I found or interpreted for myself, 
— right or wrong. 

No ; I repeat, Shakespeare ■ — bless him ! — never did me 
any moral mischief. Though the Witches in Macbeth 
troubled me, — though the Ghost in Hamlet terrified me 
(the picture, that is, — for the spirit in Shakespeare was sol- 
emn and pathetic, not hideous), — though poor little Arthur 
cost me an ocean of tears, — yet much that was obscure, 
and all that was painful and revolting, was merged on the 
whole in the vivid presence of a new, beautiful, vigorous 
living world. The plays which I now think the most won- 
derful produced comparatively little effect on my fancy : Ro- 
meo and Juliet, Othello, Macbeth, struck me then less than 



A KEVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 83 

th(^. historical plays, and far less than the ]\Iidsunmier 
Night's Dream and C}Tiibeline. It may be thought, per- 
haps, that Falstaif is not a character to strike a cliild, or to 
be understood by a child : — no ; surely not. To me Fal- 
stafF was not witty and wicked, — only irresistibly fat and 
funny ; and I remember lying on the ground rolling with 
laughter over some of the scenes in Henry the Fourth, — 
the mock play, and the seven men in buckram. But the 
Tempest and Cymbeline were the plays I liked best and 
knew best. 

Altogether, I should say that in my early years books 
were known to me, not as such, not for their general con- 
tents, but for some especial image or picture I had picked 
out of them and assimilated to my o^vn mind and mixed up 
with my own hfe. For example, out of Homer's Odyssey 
(lent to me by the parish clerk) I had the picture of JSTasi- 
caa and her maidens going do^^m in their chariots to wasli 
their linen : so that when the first time I went to the Pitti 
Palace, and could hardly see the pictures thi-ough blindmg 
tears, I saw that picture of Eubens, wliich all remember 
who have been at Florence, and it flashed delight and re- 
freshment thi'ough those remembered cliildish associations. 
The Sirens and Polypheme left also vivid pictures on my 
fancy. The Hiad, on the contrary, wearied me, except the 
parting of Hector and Andromache, in wliich the cliild, 
scared by its father's dazzling helm and nodding crest, re- 
mains a vivid image in my mind from that time. 

The same parish clerk — a curious fellow in his way — 
lent me also some religious tracts and stories, by Hannah 
More. It is most certain that more moral mischief was done 
to me by some of these than by all Shakespeare's plays to- 
gether. These so-called pious tracts first introduced me to a 
knowledge of the vices of vulgar life and the excitements of 
a vulgar rehgion, — the fear of being hanged and the fear 
of hell became coexistent in my mind ; and the teaching 



84 MRS. JAMESON. 

resolved itself into this, — that it was not by be.\ng naught j, 
but bj being found out, that I was to incur the risk of both. 
My fairy world was better ! 

About religion ; — I was taught religion as children used 
to be taught it in my younger days, and are taught it still in 
some cases, I believe, — through the medium of creeds and 
catechisms. I read the Bible too early, and too indiscrim- 
inately, and too irreverently. Even the New Testament 
was too early placed in my hands ; too early made a lesson- 
book, as the custom then was. The letter of the Scriptures 
— the words — were familiarized to me by sermonizing and 
dogmatizing, long before I could enter into the spirit. Mean- 
time, happily, another religion was growing up in my heart, 
which, strangely enough, seemed to me quite apart from that 
which was taught, — which, indeed, I never in any way 
regarded as the same which I was taught when I stood up 
wearily on a Sunday to repeat the collect and say the cate- 
chism. It was quite another thing. Not only the taught 
religion and the sentiment of faith and adoration were never 
combined, but it never for years entered into my head to 
combine them ; the first remained extraneous, the latter had 
gradually taken root in my life, even from the moment my 
mother joined my little hands in prayer. The histories out 
of the Bible (the Parables especially) were, however, en- 
chanting to me, though my interpretation of them was in 
some instances the very reverse of correct or orthodox. To 
my infant conception our Lord was a being who had come 
down from heaven to make people good, and to tell them 
beautiful stories. And though no pains were spared to 
indoctrinate me, and all my pastors and masters took it for 
granted that my ideas were quite satisfactory, nothing could 
be more confused and heterodox. 

It is a common observation that girls of lively talents are 
apt to grow pert and satirical. I fell into this danger when 



A REVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 85 

about ten years old. Sallies at the expense of certain peo- 
ple, ill-looking, or ill-dressed, or ridiculous, or foolish, had 
been laughed at and applauded in company, until, without 
being naturally malignant, I ran some risk of becoming so 
from sheer vanity. 

The fables wliich appeal to our higher moral sympathies 
may sometimes do as much for us as the truths of science. 
So thought our Saviour when he taught the multitude in 
parables. 

A good clergyman who lived near us, a famous Persian 
scholar, took it into his head to teach me Persian, (I was 
then about seven years old,) and I set to work with infinite 
delight and earnestness. All I learned was soon forgotten ; 
but a few years afterwards, happening to stumble on a 
volume of Sir William Jones's works, — his Persian gram- 
mar, — it revived my Orientalism, and I began to study it 
eagerly. Among the exercises given was a Persian fable 
or poem, — one of those traditions of our Lord wliich are 
preserved in the East. The beautiful apologue of " St. 
Peter and the Cherries," wliich Goethe has versified or 
imitated, is a well-known example. This fable I allude to 
was something similar, but I have not met with the original 
these forty years, and must give it here from memory. 

" Jesus," says the story, " arrived one evening at the 
gates of a certain city, and he sent liis disci^Dles forward to 
prepare supper, while he himself, intent on doing good, 
walked through the streets into the market-place. 

" And he saw at the corner of the market some people 
gathered together looking at an object on the ground ; and 
he drew near to see what it might be. It was a dead dog, 
with a halter round his neck, by which he appeared to have 
been dragged through the dirt ; and a viler, a more abject, 
a more uncle.an thing never met the eyes of man. 

" And those who stood by looked on with abhorrence. 



86 MRS. JAMESON. 

" ' Faugh ! ' said one, stopping his nose ; ' it pollutes the 
air.' ' How long/ said another, ' shall this foul beast oifend 
our sight ? ' ' Look at his torn hide,' said a third ; ' one 
could not even cut a shoe out of it.' ' And his ears/ said a 
fourth, ' all draggled and bleeding ! ' 'No doubt,' said a 
fifth, ' he hath been hanged for thieving ! ' 

" And Jesus heard them, and looking down compas- 
sionately on the dead creature, he said, ' Pearls are not 
equal to the wliiteness of his teeth ! ' 

" Then the people turned towards liim with amazement, 
and said among themselves, ' Who is this ? this must be 
Jesus of Nazareth, for only He could find something to pity 
and approve even in a dead dog ' ; and being ashamed, they 
bowed their heads before him, and went each on his way." 

I can recall, at this hour, the vivid, yet softening and 
pathetic impression left on my fancy by this old Eastern 
story. It struck me as exquisitely humorous, as well as 
exquisitely beautiful. It gave me a pain in my conscience, 
for it seemed thenceforward so easy and so vulgar to say 
satirical things, and so much nobler to be benign and 
merciful, and I took the lesson so home, that I was in great 
danger of falling into the opposite extreme, — of seeking 
the beautiful even in the midst of the corrupt and the 
repulsive. Pity, a large element in my composition, might 
have easily degenerated into weakness, threatening to sub- 
vert hatred of evil in trying to find excuses for it ; and 
whether my mind has ever completely righted itself, I am 
not sure. 

Educators are not always aware, I think, how acute are 
the perceptions, and how permanent the memories of chil- 
dren. I remember experiments tried upon my temper and 
feelings, and how I was made aware of this, by their being 
repeated, and, in some instances, spoken of, before me. 
Music, to which I was early and peculiarly sensitive, was 



A EEVELATION OF CHILDHOOD. 87 

€ometimes made the medium of these ex2Deriments. Dis- 
cordant sounds were not only hateful, but made me tm-n 
white and cold, and sent the blood backward to m j heart ; 
and certain tunes had a curious effect, I cannot now ac- 
count for : for though, when heard for the first time, they 
had little effect, they became intolerable by repetition ; they 
turned up some hidden emotion within me too strong to be 
borne. It could not have been from association, wliich I 
beheve to be a principal element in the emotion excited by 
music. I was too young for that. What associations could 
such a baby have had with pleasure or with pain ? Or 
could it be possible that associations with some former state 
of existence awoke up to sound ? That our life " hath 
elsewhere its beginning, and cometh from afar," is a belief, 
or at least an mstinct, in sonje minds, which music, and only 
music, seems to thrill into consciousness. At this time, 
when I was about five or six years old, Mrs. Arkwright, — 
she was then Fanny Kemble, — used to come to our house, 
and used to entrance me with her singing. I had a sort of 
adoration for her, such as an ecstatic votary might have for 
a Saint Cecilia. I trembled with pleasure, when I only 
heard her step. But her voice ! — it has charmed hundreds 
since ; whom has it ever moved to a more genuine passion 
of delight than the little child that crept silent and tremu- 
lous to her side ? And she was fond of me, — fond of sing- 
ing to me, and, it must be confessed, fond also of playing 
these experiments on me. The music of " Paul and Vir- 
ginia " was then in vogue, and there was one air — a very 
simple air — in that opera, which, after the first few bars, 
always made me stop my ears and rush out of the room. 
I became at last aware that tliis was sometimes done by 
particular desire to please my parents, or amuse and inter- 
est others by the display of such vehement emotion. My 
infant conscience became perplexed between the reality of 
the feeling and this exhibition of it. People are not always 



88 MRS. JAMESON. 

aware of the injuiy done to cliildren by repeating before 
them things they say, or describing things they do : words 
and actions, spontaneous and unconscious, become thence- 
forth artificial and conscious. I can speak of the injury 
done to myself, between five and eight years old. There 
was some danger of my becoming a precocious actress, — 
danger of permanent mischief such as I have seen done to 
other children, — but I was saved by the recoil of resistance 
and resentment excited in my mind. 

This is enough. All that has been told here refers to a 
period between five and ten years old. 



TO MONTAGUE, 

AT THIllTY-THREE. 

By CHARLES SPRAGUE. 

ONO, I '11 not forget tlie day, — 
It claims, at least, a hallowed hour, 
A sparkling cup, an honest lay, 

Sacred to Friendship's soothing power. 

'T is not all ice, this heart of mine, — 
One throb is warm and youthful still ; 

That throb, dear Montague, is thine, 
Nor age nor grief that throb can chill. 

How often sung, and yet how sweet 

To dwell upon the days of old ! 
Our guiltless pleasures to repeat. 

Ere in the world our hearts grew cold ! 

Fond memory wakes ! each pulse beats high ; 

Like some sweet tale past joys come o'er, 
The years of ruin backward fly, 

And I am young and gay once more. 

Friend of my soul ! in this poor verse 

Let one untutored tribute live ; 
Here let my tongue my love rehearse ; 

'T is all, alas ! I have to give. 



90 CHARLES SPEAGUE. 

0, if from time's wide-yawning grave 
There 's auglit of mine that I could free, 

One line from dull oblivion save, 

'T would be the line that tells of thee. 

Though to the busy world unknown 
Each noble act that shrinks from fame, 

Goodness its favorite son shall own, 
And orphan lips shall bless his name. 

Thou 'rt the small stream, that silent goes, 
By earth's cold, plodding crowd unseen, — 

Yet, all unnoticed though it flows. 
Its banks are clothed in living green. 

"We met in that bright, sunny time. 
When every scene was fresh around, 

And youth's warm hour and manhood's prime 
Have blessed the tie that boyhood bound. 

Though oft of valued friends bereft, 

I bend, submissive, to the doom ; 
For thou, the best, the best, art left. 

To cheer my journey to the tomb. 

And now, the dear ones ot our race 
Have come to live our pleasures o'er ; 

A lovely troop, to fill our place, 

And weep for us when we 're no more. 

Ever, O ever may they keep 

The holy chain of friendship bright. 

Till, rich in all that 's good, they sleep 

"With us through death's long, dreamless night. 



■1^ 





THE MAN-HUNTER. 



By BARRY CORNWALL. 



IT can scarcely be more than eighteen months ago, that 
two Englishmen met together unexpectedly at the little 
town or city of Dessau. The elder was a grave person, in 
no way remarkable; but the younger forced observation 
upon him. He was a tall, gaunt, bony figure, presenting the 
relics of a formidable man, but seemmgiy worn with travel 
and oppressed by weighty thoughts. He must once have 
been handsome ; and he was even now imposing. But pov- 
erty and toil are sad enemies to human beauty ; and he had 
endured both. Nevertheless, the black and ragged elf-locks 
which fell about his face could not quite conceal its noble 
proportions ; and, although liis cheek was ghastly and macer- 
ated, (perhaps by famine,) there was a wild, deep-seated 
splendor glowing in his eye, such as we are apt to ascribe 
to the poet when his frenzy is full upon him, or to the 
madman when he dreams of vengeance. 

The usual salutations of friends passed between them, 
and they conversed for a short time on indifferent subjects ; 
the elder, as he spoke, scrutuiizing the condition of liis ac- 
quaintance, and the other glancing about from time to time, 
with restless, watchful eyes, as though he feared some one 
might escape his observation, or else might detect liimself. 
The name of the elder of these men was Denbigh; that 
of the younger has not reached me. We will call him 



92' BARRY CORNWALL. 

Gordon. It was the curiosity of tlie first-mentioned that, 
after a reasonable period, broke out into inquiry. (They 
were just entering the public room of the Black Eagle at 
Dessau.) 

"But what has brought you here?" said he. "I left 
you plodding at a merchant's desk, with barely the means 
of living. Though a friend, you would never let me 
please myself by lending you money ; nor would you be 
my companion down the Rhine, some three years ago. 
You professed to hate travelHng. Yet I find you here, — 
a traveller evidently, with few comforts. Come, be plain 
with me. Tell me, — what has brought you hither? Or 
rather what has withered and wasted you, and made your 
hair so gray? You are grown quite an old man." 

" Ay," replied Gordon ; " I am old, as you say, old 
enough. Winter is upon me, on my head, on my heart; 
both are frozen up. Do you wish to know what brought 
me here ? "Well, you have a right to know ; and you shall 
be told. You shall hear — a tale." 

" A true one ? " inquired Denbigh, smilingly. 

" True ! " echoed the other ; " ay, as true as hell, as 
dark, as damnable, — but peace, peace ! " said he, checking 
himself for a moment, and then proceeding in a hoarse, 
whispering, vehement voice, — " all that in time. We must 
begin quietly, — quietly. Come, let us drink some wine, 
and you shall see presently what a calm historian I am." 

Wine, together with some more solid refreshments, were 
accordingly ordered. Gordon did not taste the latter, but 
swallowed a draught or two of the bold liquid, which 
seemed to still his nerves like an opiate. He composed 
liimself, and indeed appeared disposed to forget that there 
was such a thing as trouble in the world, until the impa- 
tience of his friend (which vented itself in the shape of 
various leading questions) induced him to summon up his 
recollections. He compressed his lips together for a mo- 



THE MAN-HUNTER. ' 93 

ment, and drew a sliort, deep breath, tlirougli his inflated 
nostrils ; but otherwise there was no preface or introduction 
to his story, which commenced nearly, if not precisely, in 
the following words : — 

• "About three years ago, a young girl was brought to 
one of those charitable institutions in the neighborhood of 
London, where the wretched (the sinful and the destitute) 
find refuge and consolation. She was, you may believe mc, 
beautiful ; so beautiful, so delicate, and, as I have said, so 
young, that she extorted a burst of pity and admiration 
from people long inured to look upon calamity. 

" She was attended by her mother, — a widow. This 
woman differed from her child ; not merely in age or 
feature. She was, in comparison, masculine ; her face was 
stern ; her frame strong and enduring ; she looked as 
though hunger and shame had been busy with her, — as 
though she had survived the loss of all things, and passed 
the extreme limits of human woe. Once — for I knew 
her — she would have disdained to ask even for pity. O, 
what she must have borne, in body, in mind, before she 
could have brought herself to become a suppliant there ! 
Yet there she was, — she, and her youngest born in her 
hand, beggars. She presented her cliild to the patronesses 
of the institution; and, with an unbroken voice, prayed 
them to take her in for refuge. 

" The common questions were asked, the who, the whence, 
the wherefore, &c. Even something more than common 
curiosity displayed itself in the inquiries, and all was an- 
swered with an unflincliing spirit. The mother's story was 
sad enough. Let us hope that such things are rare in 
England. She was the widow of a military man, an otncer 
of courage and conduct, who died in battle. If we could 
live upon laurels, liis family need not have starved. But 
the laurel is a poisonous tree. It is gay and shining, and 
undecaji'ng ; but Avhoso tasteth it dies ! No mattei now. 



94 BARRY CORNWALL. 

The widow and three children were left almost without 
money. The father had indeed possessed some little prop- 
erty;, but it consisted of bonds, or notes, or securities of a 
transferable nature ; and was intrusted (without receipt or 
acknowledgment) to — a villain. The depositary used it 
for his own pui'poses ; denied his trust ; and, with the cold- 
ness of a modern pliilosopher, saw his victims thrust out of 
doors,' to starve ! A good Samaritan gave them bread and 
employment for a few weeks ; but he died suddenly, and 
they were again at the mercy of fortune. 

" It was now that the mother felt that her children looked 
up to her for life. And she answered the appeal as a 
mother only can. She toiled to the very utmost of her 
strength : nothing was too much, nothing too base or menial 
for her. She worked, and watched, and endured all things, 
from all persons ; and thus it was that she obtained coarse 
food for her young ones, — sometimes even enough to sat- 
isfy their hunger ; till at last the eldest boy became useful, 
and began to earn money also ; and then they were able 
almost daily to taste — bread! It is a wonder how they 
lived, — how they shunned the vices and squalid evils which 
beset the poor. But they did so. They withstood all 
temptations. They felt no envy nor hatred for the great 
and fortunate. The sordid errors of their station nevei* 
fastened on them. They grew up honest, liberal-minded, 
courageous. They wanted not even for learning, or at 
least knowledge. For, after a time, a few cheap books 
were bought or borrowed, and the ambition which" the 
mother taught them to feel served the boys in place of 
instructors. They read and studied. After working all 
day, (running on errands, hewing wood, and drawing water,) 
these children of a noble mother sat down to gather learn- 
ing; never disobeying, never murmuring to do what she, 
to whom they owed all things, commanded them to acliieve. 
Yet, little merit is due to them. It was she, the incompar- 



THE MAN-HUNTER. 95 

able mother, who did all; saved, supported, endured all 
for her children's sake, for her dead husband's sake, and for 
the disinterested love of virtue ! 

" I know not what frightful crimes some progenitor might 
have committed, what curse he might have brought upon 
this race ; but if none, in the name of God's mercy, why, 
(when they had been steeped in baseness and poverty to the 
lips,) why was a curse more horrible than aU to come upon 
them ? Poor creatures ! had they not endured enough ? 
"Wliat is the axe or the gibbet to the daily never-dying pain 
which a mother feels who sees her children famishing away 
before her ? Sickness, cold, hunger, the contempt of friends, 
the hate or indifference of all the world besides, the perpet- 
ual heart-breaking toil and struggle to live ! to get bread, 
yet often want it ! Was not all enough ? I suppose not ; 
for a curse greater than all fell upon them. 

" A friend, — ha, ha, ha ! — let me use common words, — 
a friend of the elder son (who had, by degrees, risen to be 
a manufacturer's clerk), visited them at their humble abode. 
He was rich, he was, moreover, a specious youth, fair and 
florid, — such as young girls fancy ; but as utterly hard and 
impenetrable to every touch of honor or pity as the stone 
we tread upon. He — I must make short, work of this 
part of my story — he loved the young sister of his friend, 
or rather he sought her with the brutal appetite of an ani- 
mal. He talked, and smiled, and flattered her, — (she was 
a weak tiling, and his mummery pleased her) : he brought 
presents to her mother, and, at last, ruin and shame upon 
herself. She was so young, — not fifteen years of age ! 
But this base and hellish slave had no mercy on her inno- 
cent youth, no respect for her desolate condition. Pie 
ruined her — 0, there were horrid cii'cumstances ! — force, 
and fraud, and cruelty of all kinds, that I will not touch 
upon. It is sufficient to say that her destruction was 
achieved, and all her family in his power. The child 



96 BARRY CORNWALL. 

(herself now about to be a mother) meditated death. She 
was timid, however, and shrank from the vague and gloomy- 
terrors of the grave. So she lived on, pale and humbled, 
uttering no complaint, and disclosing no disgrace, until 
her mother noticed her despondency, and reproached her 
for it. "With a trembling heart — trembling at she knew 
not what — she inquired solemnly the cause of all this 
woe. The girl could not stand those piercing looks. The 
mother whom she had obeyed, not only with love, but in 
fear also, commanded a disclosure, and the poor victim 
sunk on her knees before her. She told her sad story 
with sobs and streaming eyes, and with her figure abased 
to absolute prostration. Her parent listened (she would 
rather have listened to her own death-warrant), — looked 
ghastly at her for a minute, and reproached her no more ! 
Some accident, — some intermission of employment, (I for- 
get what,) made it impossible to support the poor fallen 
child with proper care. This inability it was, joined to a 
wish to keep her shame secret, that carried the mother 
and daughter to the charitable place of which I have 
spoken. And there the child was deposited, under a 
feigned name, to undergo the pangs of childbirth. 

" But the sons ! Do you not ask, where are they ? Ha, 
ha ! I am coming to that. They knew nothing, — sus- 
pected nothing, till all the mother's plans were effected ; 
and then, with a gloomy countenance, and a voice troubled 
to its depths with many griefs, she told them — all." 

" How did they bear it ? Wliat did they say or do ? " 
inquired Denbigh, breaking silence for the first time since 
the commencement of the story. Gordon answered : — 

" Her communication was, at first, absolutely unintelli- 
gible. It was so sudden, and so utterly unsuspected, that 
it bore the character of a dream or a fable. They stood 
bewildered. But when the truth, — the real, bad, terrible 
t,ruth became plain, — when it was repeated with more 



THE MAN-HUNTEE. 97 

particulars, and made frightfully distinct, — the eldest son 
burst into a rage of words. The younger, a youth of 
more concentrated passions, started up, opened his mouth 
as though he would utter some curse ; but instantly fell 
dead on the floor." 

" Good G — d ! " interrupted Denbigh again, " and did he 
die?" 

" No," replied the other, " he but appeared to die. Did 
I say ' dead ' ? No ; I was wrong. He was not irrecov- 
erably dead. By prompt help he was revived. In the 
struggle between life and death blood burst from his 
mouth and from his nose, and he felt easier. Perhaps 
the oath which he at that moment was prescribing to 
himself— the fierce, implacable, unalterable determination 
which his soul was forming — tranquillized his spirit; for 
he awoke to apparent calmness, and expressed himself 
resigned. But he was not so to be satisfied. Patience, — 
resignation, — forgiveness, — these are good words : they 
are virtues, perhaps ; but they were not Ms. He was of 
a fiery spirit — " 

" Like yourself," said Denbigh, trying to smile away 
the painful impression which the story was producing on 
his mind. 

" Ay, like myself, sir," was the fierce answer. " He 
thought that vengeance, where punishment was manifestly 
due, was scarcely the shadow of a crime ; and / think so 
too. He swore, silently, but solemnly, (and invoked all 
Heaven and Hell to attest his oath,) that he would thence- 
forward have but one object, one ambition ; and this was — 
REVENGE ! He swore to take the blood of the betrayer, 
and — he did." 

" When ? where ? " asked Denbigh, quickly. 

" Let us take some wine," said Gordon ; " I am speaking 
now," continued he, after he had drunk, " of what must be. 
The future is not yet come. But as sure as I see you be- 
7 



98 BARRY CORNWALL. 

fore me, so surely do I see the consummation of this re- 
venge. There is a fate in some things : there is one in this. 
Do you remember the story of the Spaniard Aguirra ? " 

" No ! " answered the other. 

" Yet, it is well known, — it is true, — it is memorable, 
and it deserves to be remembered ; for (except in the one 
instance of which I now speak) it stands alone in the cata- 
logue of extraordinary events. You shall hear it presently, 
if it be only to rescue, by a parallel case, my story from the 
character of a fiction. At present, let it suffice to say, that 
sure as was Aguirra's vengeance, so sure shall be — mine ! " 

" Yours ! " exclaimed Denbigh, " do I hear aright ? " 

" Ay, open your ears wide. I am the Revenger I My 
family it is who owe Fortune so little, — to whom vengeance 
owes so much ! My mother and her famished brood it was 
of whose sufferings I have spoken, and whose injuries I am 
destined to revenge." 

" But the villain — ? " inquired Denbigh. 

" You do well to bring me back to him. Yet think not 
that I for a moment forget him. He fled when he knew, — 
nay, before he knew, — when he but surmised that we had 
discovered his villany. He collected money together, and 
left his country. But I was soon upon his track. I too had 
gathered some hard earnings, and my brother more ; and 
with these united, I commenced a desperate pursuit. I will 
not weary you by recounting the many difficulties of my task ; 
how many thousand miles I have journeyed barefoot, with 
little clothing, with less food (for I was forced to economize 
my poor means) ; how for three years I have been generally 
a beggar for my bread, a companion with the unsheltered 
dog ; how I have been wounded, robbed, and even once im- 
prisoned. That fortunately was but for a day, or it might 
have overthrown my plans of vengeance. Thanks to the 
furies, it did not ; I followed him, — over all countries, from 
Moscow to Madrid, from the Baltic to the Carpathians. He 



THE MAN-HUNTER. 99 

fled mth a sense, with a knowledge, that I was forever on his 
track. He slept trebly armed, locked in and barred from all 
access. He has been known to rise at night, and take flight 
for a distant land. But, with the unerring sense of a blood- 
hound, I was always after, him. I was sure of him. He 
never escaped me. No disguise, no swiftness of journeying, 
no digressions from the ordinary path, no doubles, nor turn- 
ings, nor common feints, such as the hunted beast resorts to 
in his despair, availed him. Wherever he was — there was 
I! not so soon perhaps, but quite as surely. 

" Twenty times I have been near meeting him alone, and 
consummating my purpose. But one thing or other perpet- 
ually intervened. A casual blow, without the certainty of 
its being fatal, would have been nothing. He might have 
recovered, — he might have lived to see me proclaimed a 
malefactor, and have borne evidence against me ; and then 
he would have triumphed, and not I. I resolved to make 
surer work ; to see that he should die ; and for myself, I 
determined to live, for some time at least, in order to en- 
joy the remembrance of having accomplished one deed of 
justice. 

" I said that I would not weary you with a narrative of 
my travels and a repetition of my failures. But one adven- 
ture amongst many occurs to me, somewhat differing from 
the rest, and you shall hear it. One of my transits was across 
the whole face of Europe ; from an obscure town in Flan- 
ders to the Porte. I had scarcely reached the Fanar 
(where I was housed by a Greek, whom I had served in an 
accidental aflfray), when I fell sick of a fiery distemper, — 
some plague or fever begot in those burning regions, wliich 
sometimes destroys the native and almost always the luckless 
stranger. In my extremity, my kind hosts sent for a physi- 
cian, — a converted Jew. He came and heard my ravings, 
and let the sickness deal with me as it chose. Some v/ords, 
however, which I threw out in my delirium (at liis second 

LofC. 



100 BARRY CORNWALL. 

visit) excited Ms curiosity ; and coming, as tliej did, from a 
Frank, he was induced to communicate them to an English- 
man who lodged in his house. This Enghshman was — the 
fiend, the fugitive, whom I had chased so long in vain. A 
few words and a lump of gold concluded a bargain ; and 
the next time the scowling Issachar came to my bedside, he 
ordered a cup of coffee for his patient. I had at that time 
recovered my senses, and became suddenly and sensitively 
awake to everything about me. I saw the renegade take a 
powder from his vest, and, after looking round to see that 
all was clear, put it, with a peculiar look, into the cup. ^It 
is poison,^ I said to myself; and by a sudden effort (while 
the Israelite's back was turned), I forced myself upwards, 
and sat, like a corpse revived, awaiting his attention. After 
he had drugged the draught, he turned round suddenly and 
beheld me. There I was, unable to speak indeed, but 
ghastly and as white as stone, threatening and grinning, and 
chattering unintelligible sounds. He was staggered; but 
recovering himself with a smile, he tendered the detestable 
potion. I had just strength enough to dash it out of his 
hand, and sank on the bed exhausted. When I recovered I 
found myself alone ; nor did I ever again see my physician. 
" I do not complain of this. Life for life is an equal 
stake. I knew the game which I was playuig. Death for 
one or both of us, — that was certain. Quiet for him, at all 
events (upon the earth or within it) ; perhaps revenge for 
me. I was not angry at this attempt on my life. I liked it 
better, in truth, than hunting day after day, week after week, 
a flying, timorous, unresisting wretch. The opposition, the 
determination he evinced to strike again, spurred me on. 
It afforded a relief to my perpetual disappointment ; it 
checkered the miserable monotony of my life. Sometimes I 
had almost felt compassion for my harassed and terrified 
enemy, and generally contempt. But 7iow — an adder was 
before me. It rose up, and strove to use its fangs, and was 



THE MAN-HUNTER. 101 

no longer to be trod on without peril. These thoughts, 
strange as it may seem, contributed to my recovery. I grew 
tranquil and well apace ; and w^hen I was fit to travel, I 
found that my foe had quitted precipitately the banks of the 
Bosphorus. 

" I had little difficulty in learning his route ; for my 
Greek had his national subtilty, and did not spare money to 
set me on the track. The Jew doctor (he had a second 
bribe) said that he had overheard my victim bargaming 
with a Tartar courier to conduct him to Vienna. Upon this 
hint, I set off on my dreary journey through the Ottoman 
Empire and its huge provinces, — Roumelia, Wallachia, 
Transylvania. I traversed the great uncultivated plains of 
Turkey ; I crossed the Balkan and the muddy Danube ; 
escaped the quarantine of the Crapaks ; and finally dis- 
mounted at Vienna, just as a carriage was heard thundering 
along the Presburg road containing a traveller to whom 
haste was evidently of the last importance. 'T was he ! 
I saw him ; and he saw me. He saw me, and knew in 
a moment that all his toilsome journey was once more in 
vain. I saw him grow pale before me, and I triumphed. 
Ha ! ha ! — that night I was joyful. I ate, and drank, and 
di-eamt, as though I had no care or injury upon me. The 
next morning I looked to see that my dagger was sharp, 
and my pistols primed, and set out on foot to decoy my foe 
into a quiet place, fit for the completion of my purpose. 
But I failed, as I had failed often before. I beset him, I 
tried to surprise him ; I kept him in hicessant alarm ; but 
the end was still the same. He was still destined to escape 
me, and I to remam his pursuer. 

" How it was that he retained his senses, that he had still 
sprmg of mind to fly and hope to escape pursuit, is a 
mystery to me. I have often w^ondered that he did not 
bare his throat before me, and end his misery ; as those who 
grow dizzy on a precipice, cast themselves from it, and find 



102 BAKRY CORNWALL. 

refuge from their intolerable fears — in death. But no ; his 
love of life, his fear (caused by that love of life), were so 
great, so insuperable, that they never seemed capable, as in 
ordinary cases, of sinking into indifference or despair. He 
had no moral, no intellectual qualities, no courage of any 
sort. Yet by his /ear alone, he became at times absolutely 
terrific. His struggles, his holding on to life, (when nothing 
was left worth living for,) his sleepless, ceaseless activity 
in flight, assumed a serious and even awful character. He 
pursued his purpose as steadily and as unflinchingly as I 
pursued mine. Terror never stopped him ; hope never for- 
sook him. From one end of the world to the other he fled 

— backwards and forwards, this way, and that — he fled, 
and fled ; not dropping from apprehension, like the dove or 
the wren ; but still keeping on his way, like some fierce bird 
of prey, who, driven from one region, will still seek another, 
and another, and fight it out to the last extremity. So 
frightful have been his struggles, so wild and fantastic the 
character of his fears, that once or twice, I — (his destroyer) 

— I, who was watching him with an ever-deadly purpose, 
became absolutely daunted and oppressed. I resumed my 
strength, however, speedily, as you will suppose ; for what 
his fear was to him, hate or revenge was to me, — the sole 
stirring principle of life. Oh ! this accursed wretch ! does 
he ever dream that I relax ? — that toil, and destitution, and 
danger have any effect upon me ? He shall Hve to find him- 
self in error. I am the fate, — the bloodhound that will fol- 
low, and must find him at last. Let me give up the contest 
at once, and all will be quiet ; — no more fear for him, — no 
more sad labors for me ! Of what value is' life to either cf 
us ? But yes, — to me, it is of value ; for I have a deed to 
do, an act of justice to perform on the most reckless and 
heartless villain that ever disgraced the human name." 

" And his name, what is that ? " asked Denbigh. 

" Wame, — Warne, — the brand of hell be on him ! " 



THE MAN-HUNTER. 103 

" Hush ! do not speak so loud ! Look ! there is some 
one in yonder box who has heard you," said Denbigh again, 
in a suppressed tone. 

" I care not," replied the other. " This devil who walks 
ill human shape, and under the name of Warne, is now in 
this city. He has eluded me for a short — a very short 
time — by shifting his course and changing his disguises. 
But I am here, and shall find him, wherever he lurks. Be 
sure of it." 

At this moment a stranger was seen stealing from a box, 
where he had been taking refreshment. He appeared by 
his walk (for the two speakers saw only his back) to be 
an old man. He said nothing ; but, walking up towards the 
end of the room, where a person attached to the inn was 
standmg, put a piece of money in his hand, (evidently more 
than sufficient to discharge his bill,) and left the house. 

From the first movement of the stranger, the attention of 
Gordon was upon him : his neck was stretched out, his 
eyes strained and wide open ; he even seemed to listen to 
his tread. 

" What is the matter ? " said Denbigh. " There is noth- 
ing but an old man there, who is tottering home to bed." 

Gordon made no reply, but followed the person alluded 
to stealthily from the house. After a minute's space, Den- 
bigh saw him again hiding behind the buttress of a building 
on the opposite side of the street. He was evidently watch- 
ing the stranger He did not continue long, however, in 
this situation, but stole forwards cautiously. After pro- 
ceeding a short distance, he turned, and followed the- wind- 
ings of a street or road that intersected the prindpat street 
of the town, and finally disappeared. 

Denbigh never saw him again. Three or four days 
afterwards, the body of an unknown man was found in a 
copse near the city of Dessau. It was pierced with wounds, 
and disfigured, and the clothes were much torn, as in a 



104 BAEEY CORNWALL. 

struggle. From one hand (wMcli remained clasped) some 
fragments of dress, coarser than what belonged to the body, 
were forced with difficulty ; but they did not lead to detec- 
tion. The stranger was buried, and as much inquiry made 
respecting him as is usual for persons for whom no one feels 
an interest. His murderer never was discovered. Denbigh 
l(;ft the place immediately that the inquisition was over. 
He did not volunteer his evidence upon the occasion. His 
natural love of justice, and perceptions of right, were pei • 
haps obscured by liis affection for his friend ; besides which, 
nothing that he could have said upon the occasion would 
have exceeded a vague suspicion of the fact. At all events, 
he kept Gordon's secret, until he deemed that it was not 
dangerous to disclose it. 

In regard to Gordon himself — he was never more heard 
of A man, indeed, bearing somewhat of his appearance, 
was afterwards seen in the newly-cleared country near the 
Ohio ; but, excepting the resemblance that he bore to Den- 
bigh's friend, and a certain intelligence beyond his situation 
(which was that of a common laborer), there was nothing 
to induce a belief that it was the same person. Whoever 
he might 'be, however, even he too now has disappeared. 
He was killed accidentally, while felling one of those enor- 
mous hemlock-trees, with which some parts of the great 
continent abound. A shallow grave was scooped for him ; 
a fellow-laborer's prayer was his only requiem; and, what- 
ever may have been his intellect, whatever his passions oi 
strength of purpose, the frail body which once contained 
them now merely fertilizes the glade of an American forest, 
or else has become food for the bear or the jackal. 

[The story of Aguirra, referred to in the foregoing nar- 
rative, occurs in one of our early periodical works, and is to 
the following effect : Aguirra was a Spanish soldier, under 
the command of Esquivel, governor of Lima or Potosi. 



THE MAN-HUNTER. 105 

For some small cause, or for no cause, (to make an ex- 
ample, or to wreak his spite,) tliis governor caused Aguirra 
to be stripped and flogged. He received some hundred 
stripes ; his remonstrances (that he was a gentleman, and as 
such exempt by law from such disgrace, and that what he 
had done was unimportant, and justified by common usage) 
being treated with contempt. He endured the punishment 
in the presence of a crowd of comrades and strangers, and 
swore (with a Spaniard's spirit) never to be satisfied but 
with his tyrant's blood. He waited patiently, until Esquivel 
was no longer governor ; refusing consolation, and declin- 
ing, from fancied unworthiness, all honorable employment. 
But, when the governor put off his authority, then Aguirra 
commenced his revenge. He followed his victim from 
place to place, — haunted him like a ghost, — and filled 
him (though surrounded by friends and servants) with per- 
petual di'ead. No place, no distance, could stop him. He 
has been known to track his enemy for three, four, five 
hundred leagues at a time ! He continued pursuing him for 
three years and four months ; and at last, after a journey 
of five hundred leagues, came upon him suddenly at Cuzco ; 
found him, for the first time, without his guards, and in- 
stantly — stabbed him to the heart ! 

Such is the story of Aguirra. It is beheved to be a fact ; 
and so is the story Avhich I have recounted above. The 
circumstances are not only curious as showing a strange 
coincidence, but they show also what a powerful effect a 
narrative of this kind may produce. For there is httle 
doubt but that the South American tale, although it may 
not absolutely have generated the spirit of vengeance in 
Gordon's mind, so shaped and modified it as ' to stimulate 
liis flagging animosity ; carried him through all impedi- 
ments and reverses to the catastrophe ; and enabled him 
to exhibit a perseverance that is to be paralleled nowhere, 
except perhaps m the history of fanatics or martyrs.] 



THE NORSEMAN 



By GERALD MASSEY. 

AS WAETHY strength with face of Hght, 
As dark sword-iron is beaten bright ; 
A brave, frank look, with health aglow, 
Bonnj blue eyes and open brow ; 
His friend he welcomes, heart-in-hand, 
But foot to foot his foe must stand : 
A Man who will face, to his last breath, 
The sternest facts of life and death : 

This is the brave old Norseman. 

The wild wave-motion weird and strange 
Rocks in him ! seaward he must range ; 
His life is just a mighty lust 
To wear away with use, not rust ! 
Though bitter wintry cold the storm, * 
The fire within him keeps him warm : 
Kings quiver at his flag unfurled. 
The Sea-King 's master of the world ! 

And conquering rides the Norseman. 

He hides at heart of his rough life 
A world of sweetness for the Wife : 
From his rude breast a Babe may press 
Soft milk of human tenderness, — • 
Make his eyes water, his heart dance, 
And sunrise in his countenance : 



THE NOKSEMAN. 107 

In merry mood his ale he quaffs 

Bj firelight, and his jolly heart laughs ; 

The blithe, great-hearted Norseman. 

But when the Battle Trumpet rings. 
His soul 's a war-horse clad with wings ! 
He drinks delight in with the breath 
Of Battle and the dust of death : 
The Axes redden ; spring the sparks 
Blood-radiant grow the gray mail-sarks ; 
Such blows might batter, as they fell. 
Heaven's gates, or burst the booms of hell ! 
So fights the fearless Norseman. 

The Norseman's king must stand up tall, 
If he would be head over all ; 
Mainmast of Battle ! when the plain 
Is miry red with bloody rain ! 
And grip his weapon for the fight. 
Until his knuckles all grow white ; 
Their banner-staff he bears is best 
If double handful for the rest : 

When " Follow me ! " cries the Norseman, 

Valiant and true, as Sagas tell, 
The Norseman hated lies like hell ; 
Hardy from cradle to the grave, 
'T was their religion to be brave : 
Great, silent fighting-men, whose words 
"Were few, soon said, and out with Swords ! 
One saw his heart cut from his side 
Living, and smiled ; and smiling, died : 

The unconquerable Norseman. 

They swam the flood ; they strode in flame ; 
Nor quailed when the Valkyrie came 



108 GERALD MASSEY. 

To Idss the cliosen, for her charms, 
With " Rest my Hero, in mine arms." 
Their spirits through a grim wide wound, 
The Norse door-way to heaven found ; 
And borne upon the battle blast. 
Into the hall of Heroes passed : 

And there was crowned the Norseman. 

The Norseman wrestled with old Rome, 
For Freedom in our Island home ; 
He taught us how to ride the sea 
With hempen bridle, horse of tree : 
The Norseman stood with Robin Hood 
By. Freedom in the merry green wood, 
When Wilham ruled the English land 
With cruel heart and bloody hand. 

For Freedom fights the Norseman. 

Stni in our race the Norse king reigns ; 

His best blood beats along our veins ; 

With his old glory we can glow, 

And surely sail where he could row : 

Is danger stii'ring ? from its sleep 

Our War-dog wakes his watch to keep, . 

Stands with our Banner over him, 

True as of old, and stern and grim ! 

Come on, you '11 find the Norseman. 

When Swords are gleaming you shall see 
The Norseman's face flash gloriously, 
With look that makes the foeman reel ; 
His mirror from of old was steel ! 
And still he wields, in Battle's hour. 
The old Thor's hammer of Norse power. 
Strikes with a .desperate arm of might. 
And at the last tug turns the fight : 

For never yields the Norseman. 



THE DRUIDS 



By EDMUND BURKE. 



BRITAIN was in the time of Julius Caesar what it is at 
this day in climate and natural advantages, temperate 
and reasonably fertile. But, destitute of all those improve- 
ments which in a succession of ages it has received from in- 
genuity, from commerce, from riches and luxury, it then 
wore a very rough and savage appearance. The country, 
forest or marsh ; the habitations, cottages ; the cities, hiding- 
places in woods ; the people naked, or only covered with 
skins ; their sole employment, pasturage and hunting. They 
painted their bodies for ornament or terror, by a custom 
general amongst all savage nations, who, being passion- 
ately fond of show and finery, and having no object but 
their naked bodies on which to exercise this disposition, 
have in all times painted or cut their skins, according to 
theii' ideas of ornament. They shaved the beard on the 
chin ; that on the upper lip was suffered to remain, and 
grow to an extraordinary length, to favor the martial ap- 
pearance, in which they placed their glory. They were in 
their natural temper not unlike the Gauls ; impatient, fiery, 
inconstant, ostentatious, boastful, fond of novelty, and, like 
all barbarians, fierce, treacherous, and cruel. Their arms 
were short javelins, small shields of a slight texture, and 
great cutting swords with a blunt point, after the Gaulish 
feshion. 



110 EDMUND BURKE. 

Their chiefs went to battle in chariots, not unartfully 
contrived, nor unskilfully managed. I cannot help tliink- 
ing it something extraordinary, and not easily to be ac- 
counted for, that the Britons should have been so expert 
in the fabric of those chariots, when they seem utterly 
ignorant in all other mechanic arts ; but thus it is deliv- 
ered to us. They had also horse, though of no great repu- 
tation, in their armies. Their foot was without heavy 
armor ; it was no firm body ; nor instructed to preserve 
their ranks, to make their evolutions, or to obey their com- 
manders ; but in tolerating hardships, in dexterity of form- 
ing ambuscades (the art military of savages), they are said 
to have excelled. A natural ferocity and an impetuous 
onset stood them in the place of discipline. 

It is very difficult, at this distance of time, and with so 
little information, to discern clearly Avhat sort of civil gov • 
ernment prevailed among the ancient Britons. In all very 
uncultivated countries, as society is not close or intricate, 
nor property very valuable, liberty subsists with few re- 
straints. The natural equality of mankind appears, and is 
asserted; and therefore there are but obscure lines of any 
form of government. In every society of this sort the 
natural connections are the same as in others, though the 
political ties are weak. Among such barbarians, therefore, 
though there is little authority in the magistrate, there is 
often great power lodged, or rather left, in the father; for, 
as among the Gauls, so among the Britons, he had the 
power of life and death in his own family, over his chil- 
dren and his servants. 

But among freemen and heads of families causes of all 
sorts seem to have been decided by the Druids : they sum- 
moned and dissolved all the public assembhes ; they alone 
had the power of capital punishments, and indeed seem to 
have had the sole execution and interpretation of whatever 
laws subsisted among this people. In this respect the 



THE DRUIDS. Ill 

Celtic nations did not greatly differ from others, except that 
we view them in an earlier stage of society. Justice was 
in all countries originally administered by the priesthood ; 
nor indeed could laws in their first feeble state have either 
authority or sanction, so as to compel men to relinquish 
their natural independence, had they not appeared to come 
down to them enforced by beings of more than human 
power. The first openings of civility have been every- 
where made by religion. Amongst the Romans, the cus- 
tody and interpretation of. the laws continued solely in the 
college of the pontiffs for above a century. 

The time in which the Druid priesthood was instituted 
is unknown. It probably rose, hke other institutions of 
that kind, from low and obscure beginnings ; and acquired 
from time, and the labors of able men, a form, by which 
it extended itself so far, and attained at length so mighty 
an influence over the minds of a fierce, and otherwise un- 
governable, people. Of the place where it arose there is 
somewhat less doubt. Csesar mentions it as the common 
opinion that this institution began in Britain ; that there it 
always remained in the highest perfection, and that from 
thence it difinsed itself into Gaul. I own I find it not easy 
to assign any tolerable cause why an order of so much 
authority, and a discipline so exact, should have passed 
from the more barbarous people to the more civilized ; 
from the younger to the older; from the colony to the 
mother country ; but it is not wonderful that the early 
extinction of this order, and that general contempt in which 
the Romans held all the barbarous nations, should have left 
these matters obscure and full of difficulty. 

The Druids were kept entirely distinct from the body of 
the people ; and they were exempted from all the inferior 
and burdensome offices of society, that they might be at 
leisure to attend the important duties of their own charge. 
They were chosen out of the best families, and from the 



112 EDMUND BURKE. 

young men of the most promising talents ; a regulation 
which placed and preserved them in a respectable light 
mth the world. None were admitted into this order but 
after a long and laborious novitiate, which made the char- 
acter venerable in their own eyes bj the time and difficulty 
of attaining it. They were much devoted to solitude, and 
thereby acquired that abstracted and thoughtful air which 
is so imposing upon the vulgar. And when they appeared 
in pubHc it was seldom, and only on some great occasion ; 
in the sacrifices of the gods, or on the seat of judgment. 
They prescribed medicine; they formed the youth; they 
paid the last honors to the dead ; they foretold events ; they 
exercised themselves in magic. They were at once the 
priests, lawgivers, and physicians of their nation, and con- 
sequently concentred in themselves all that respect that 
men have diffusively for those who heal their diseases, pro- 
tect their property, or reconcile them to the Divinity. 
THiat contributed not a little to the stability and power of 
this order was the extent of its foundation, and the regu- 
larity and proportion of its structure. It took in both 
sexes ; and the female Druids were in no less esteem for 
their knowledge and sanctity than the males. It was divid- 
ed into several subordinate ranks and classes ; and they all 
depended upon a chief, or Arch-Druid, who was elected 
to his place with great authority and pre-eminence for life. 
They were further armed with a power of interdictmg from 
their sacrifices, or excommunicating, any obnoxious persons. 
This interdiction, so similar to that used by the ancient 
Athenians, and to that since practised among Christians, 
was followed by an exclusion from all the benefits of civil 
community ; and it was accordingly the most dreaded of aU 
punishments. This ample authority was in general use- 
fully exerted ; by the interposition of the Druids, differ- 
ences were composed and wai's ended ; and the minds of the 
fierce Northern people, being reconciled to each other, under 



THE DRUIDS. 113 

the influence of religion, united with signal effect against 
their common enemies. 

There was a class of the Druids, whom they called 
Bards, who delivered in songs (their only history) the ex- 
ploits of their heroes; and who composed those verses 
which contained the secrets of Druidical discipline, their 
principles of natural and moral philosophy, their astronomy, 
and the mystical rites of their religion. These verses in all 
probability bore a near resemblance to the golden verses 
of Pythagoras ; to those of PhocyUdes, Oi'pheus, and other 
remnants of the most ancient Greek poets. The Druids, 
even in Gaul, where they were not altogether ignorant of 
the use of letters, in order to preserve their knowledge in 
greater respect, committed none of theii' precepts to wi-it- 
ing. The proficiency of their pupils was estimated princi- 
pally by the number of technical verses which they retained 
in their memory : a circumstance that shows this discipline 
rather calculated to preserve with accuracy a few plain 
maxims of traditionary science, than to improve and extend 
it. And this is not the sole circumstance which leads us 
to believe that among them learning had advanced no 
further than its infancy. 

The scholars of the Druids, like those of Pythagoras, 
were carefully enjoined a long and religious silence ; for if 
barbarians come to acquire any knowledge, it is rather by 
instruction than examination : they must therefore be silent. 
Pythagoras, in the rude times of Greece, required silence 
in his disciples ; but Socrates, in the meridian of the Athe- 
nian refinement, spoke less than his scholars : everything 
Avas disputed in the Academy. 

The Druids are said to be very expert in astronomy, in 
geogi-aphy, and in aU parts of mathematical knowledge. 
And authors speak, in a very exaggerated strain, of their 
excellence in these, and in many other sciences. Some 
elemental knowledge I suppose they had ; but I can 



114 EDMUND BURKE. 

scarcely be persuaded that their learning was either deep 
or extensive. In all countries where Druidism was pro- 
fessed, the youth were generally instructed by that order ; 
and yet was there little, either in the manners of the peo- 
ple, in their way of life, or their works of art, that demon- 
strates profound science, or particularly mathematical skill. 
Britain, where their discipKne was in its liighest perfection, 
and which was therefore resorted to by the people of Gaul, 
as an oracle in Druidical questions, was more barbarous in 
all other respects than Gaul itself, or than any other coun- 
try then known in Europe. These piles of rude magnifi- 
cence, Stonehenge and Abury, are in vain produced in 
proof of their mathematical abilities. These vast structures 
have nothing which can be admired, but the greatness of 
the work ; and they are not the only instances of the great 
things which the mere labor of many hands united, and 
persevering in their purpose, may accomplish with very 
little help from mechanics. This may be evinced by the 
immense buildings, and the low state of the sciences, among 
the original Peruvians. 

The Druids were eminent, above all the philosophic 
lawgivers of antiquity, for their care in impressing the 
doctrine of the soul's immortality on the minds of their 
people, as an operative and leading principle. This doc- 
trine was inculcated on the scheme of transmigration, which 
some imagine them to have derived from Pythagoras. But 
it is by no means necessary to resort to any particular 
teacher for an opinion which owes its birth to the weak 
struggles of unenlightened reason, and to mistakes natural 
to the human mind. The idea of the soul's immortality is 
indeed ancient, universal, and in a manner inherent in our 
nature : but it is not easy for a rude people to conceive any 
other mode of existence than one similar to what they had 
experienced in life; nor any other world as the scene of 
such an existence but this we inhabit, beyond the bounds of 



THE DRUIDS. 115 

wliich the mind extends itself with great difficulty. Admi- 
ration, indeed, was able to exalt to heaven a few selected 
heroes: it did not seem absurd that those, who in their 
mortal state had distinguished themselves as superior and 
overruling spirits, should after death ascend to that sphere 
which influences and governs everything below; or that 
the proper abode of beings, at once so illustrious and per- 
manent, should be in that part of nature in which they had 
always observed the greatest splendor and the least muta- 
tion. But on ordinary occasions it was natural some should 
imagine that the dead retired into a remote country, sepa- 
rated from the living by seas or mountains. It was natural 
that some should follow their imagination with a simplicity 
still purer, and pursue the souls of men no further than 
the sepulchres in which their bodies had been deposited; 
whilst others of deeper penetration, observing that bodies 
worn out by age, or destroyed by accidents, still afforded 
the materials for generating new ones, concluded likewise 
that a soul being dislodged did not wholly perish, but was 
destined, by a similar revolution in nature, to act again, and 
to animate some other body. This last principle gave rise 
to the doctrine of transmigration ; but we must not presume, 
of course, that where it prevailed it necessarily excluded the 
other opinions ; for it is not remote from the usual proced- 
ure of the human mind, blending, in obscure matters, imag- 
ination and reasoning together, to unite ideas the most 
inconsistent. When Homer represents the ghosts of his 
heroes appearing at the sacrifices of Ulysses, he supposes 
them endued with life, sensation, and a capacity of moving, 
but he has joined to these powers of living existence un- 
comehness, want of strength, want of distinction, the char- 
acteristics of a dead carcass. This is what the mind is apt 
to do : it is very apt to confound the ideas of the surviving 
soul and the dead body. The vulgar have always, and still 
do, confound these very irreconcilable ideas. They lay the 



116 EDMUND BURKE 

scene of apparitions in cliurchyards ; they habit 'the ghost 
in a shroud, and it appears in all the ghastly paleness of a 
corpse. A contradiction of this kind has given rise to a 
doubt whether the Druids did in reality hold the doctrine 
of transmigration. There is positive testimony that they 
did hold it. There is also testimony as positive that they 
buried or burned with the dead utensils, arms, slaves, and 
whatever might be judged useful to them, as if they were to 
be removed into a separate state. They might have held 
both these opinions; and we ought not to be surprised to 
find error inconsistent. 

The objects of the Druid worship were many. In this 
respect they did not differ from other heathens ; but it must 
be owned, that in general their ideas of divine matters were 
more exalted than those of the Greeks and Roinans, and 
that they did not fall into an idolatry so coarse and vulgar. 
That their gods should be represented under a human form, 
they thought derogatory to beings uncreated and imperisha- 
ble. To confine what can endure no limits within walls 
and roofs, they judged absurd and impious. In these par- 
ticulars there was something refined, and suitable enough 
to a just idea of the Divinity. But the rest was not equal. 
Some notions they had, like the greatest part of mankind, of 
a Being eternal and infinite ; but they also, like the greatest 
pait of mankind, paid their worship to inferior objects, from 
the nature of ignorance and superstition always tendmg 
downwards. 

The first and chief objects of their worship were the ele- 
ments ; and, of the elements, fire, as the most pure, active, 
penetrating, and what gives life and energy to all the rest. 
Among fires, the preference was given to the sun, as the 
most glorious visible being, and the fountain of all life. 
Next they venerated the moon and the planet-s. After fire, 
water was held in reverence. Tliis, when pure, and ritually 
prepared, was supposed to wash away all sins, and to qual- 



THE DRUIDS. 117 

ify the priest to approach the altar of the gods with more 
acceptable prayers ; washing with water being a type natu- 
ral enough of inward cleansing and purity of mind. They 
also worshipped fountains, and lakes, and rivers. 

Oaks were regarded by this sect with a particular ven- 
eration, as by their greatness, their shade, their stability 
and duration, not iU representing the perfections of the 
Deity. From the great reverence in which they held this 
tree, it is thought their name of Druids is derived, the 
word Deru in the Celtic language signifymg an oak. But 
their reverence was not wholly confined to this tree. All 
forests were held sacred ; and many particular plants were 
respected, as endued with a particular holiness. No plant 
was more revered than the mistletoe, especially if it grew 
on the oak ; not only because it is rarely found upon that 
tree, but because the oak was among the Druids peculiarly 
sacred. Towards the end of the year they searched for this 
plant, and when it was found great rejoicing ensued : it was 
approached with reverence ; it was cut with a golden hook ; 
it was not suffered to fall to the ground, but received with 
great care and solemnity upon a white garment. 

In ancient times, and in all countries, the profession of 
physic was annexed to the priesthood. Men imagined that 
aU their diseases were inflicted by the immediate displeas- 
ure of the Deity, and therefore concluded that the remedy 
would most probably proceed from those who were particu- 
larly employed in his service. Whatever, for the same 
reason, was found of efficacy to avert or cure distempers 
was considered as partaking somewhat of the Divinity. 
Medicine was always joined with magic ; no remedy was 
administered without mysterious ceremony and incantation. 
The use of plants and herbs, both in medicinal and magical 
practices, was early and general. The mistletoe, pointed 
out by its very peculiar appearance and manner of growth, 
must have struck powerfully on the imaginations of a su- 



118 EDMUND BUEKE. 

perstitious people. Its virtues may have been soon discov- 
ered. It has been fully proved, against the opinion of 
Celsus, that internal remedies were of very early use. 
Yet if it had not, the practice of the present savage nations 
supports the probability of that opinion. By some modem 
authors the mistletoe is said to be of signal service m the 
cure of certain convulsive distempers, which, by their sud- 
denness, their violence, and their unaccountable symptoms, 
have been ever considered as supernatural. The epilepsy 
was by the Romans for that reason called Morhus Sacer ; 
and all other nations have regarded it in the same hght. 
The Druids also looked upon vervain, and some other 
plants, as holy, and probably for a similar reason. 

The other objects of the Druid worship were chiefly 
serpents in the animal world, and rude heaps of stone, or 
great pillars without polish or sculpture, in the inanimate. 
The serpent, by his dangerous qualities, is not ill adapted to 
inspire terror ; by his annual renewals, to raise admiration ; 
by his make, easily susceptible of many figures, to serve for 
a variety of symbols \ and by all, to be an object of religious 
observance : accordingly no object of idolatry has been more 
universal. And this is so natural, that serpent-veneration 
seems to be rising again even in the bosom of Mahome- 
tanism. 

The great stones, it has been supposed, were originally 
monuments of illustrious men, or the memorials of consid- 
erable actions, or they were landmarks for deciding the 
bounds of fixed property. In time, the memory of the 
persons or facts which these stones were erected to perpetu- 
ate wore away ; but the reverence which custom, and proba- 
bly certain periodical ceremonies, had preserved for those 
places was not so soon obliterated. The monuments them- 
selves then came to be venerated ; and not the less because 
the reason foi- venerating them was no longer known. The 
landmark was in those times held sacred on account of its 



THE DRUIDS. 119 

great uses, and easily passed into an object of worship. 
Hence the god Terminus amongst the Romans. Tliis relig- 
ious observance towards rude stones is one of the most 
ancient and universal of all customs. Traces of it are to 
be found in almost all, and especially in these Northern 
nations ; and to this day in Lapland, where heathenism is 
not yet entirely extirpated, their cliief divinity, which they 
call Stor Junhare, is nothing more than a rude stone. 

Some writers, among the moderns, because the Druids 
ordinarily made no 'use of images in theii' worship, have 
given in to an opinion, that their religion was founded on 
the unity of the Godhead. But this is no just consequence. 
The spirituality of the idea, admitting their idea to have 
been spiritual, does not infer the unity of the object. All 
the ancient authors who speak of this order agree, that, 
l^esides those great and more distinguisliing objects of their 
worship already mentioned, they had gods answerable to 
those adored by the Romans. And we know that the 
JN'orthern nations who overran the Roman Empire had in 
fact a great plurality of gods, whose attributes, though not 
their names, bore a close analogy to the idols of the South- 
ern world. 

The Druids performed the highest act of religion by 
sacrifice, agreeably to the custom of all other nations. 
They not only offered up beasts, but even human victims ; 
a barbarity almost universal iii the heathen world, but exer- 
cised more uniformly, and with circiunstances of peculiar 
cruelty, amongst those nations where the religion of the 
Druids prevailed. They held that the life of a man was 
the only atonement for the life of a man. They frequently 
enclosed a number of wretches, some captives, some crimi- 
nals, and, when these were wanting, even innocent victims, 
in a gigantic statue of wicker-work, to which they set fire, 
and invoked their deities amidst the horrid cries and shrieks 
of the sufferers, and the shouts of those who assisted at 
this tremendous rite. 



120 EDMUND BURKE. 

There were none among the ancients more eminent for 
all the arts of divination than the Druids. Many of the 
superstitious practices in use to this day among the country 
people for discovering their future fortune seem to be 
remains of Druidism. Futurity is the great concern of 
mankind. Whilst the wise and learned look back upon ex- 
perience and liistory, and reason from things past about 
events to come, it is natural for the rude and ignorant, vv^ho 
have" the same desires mthout the same reasonable means 
of satisfaction, to inquire into the secrets of futurity, and 
to govern their conduct by omens, dreams, and prodigies. 
The Druids, as well as the Etruscan and Roman priest- 
hood, attended with diligence the flight of birds, the pecking 
of chickens, and the entrails of their animal sacrifices. It 
was obvious that no contemptible prognostics of the weather 
were to be taken from certain motions and appearances in 
birds and beasts. A people who lived mostly in the open 
air must have been well skilled in these observations. And 
as changes in the weather influenced much the fortune of 
their huntings, or their harvests, which were all their for- 
tunes, it was easy to apply the same prognostics to every 
event by a transition very natural and common ; and thus 
probably arose the science of auspices, Avliich formerly 
guided the deliberations of councils, and the motions of 
armies, though now they only serve, and scarcely serve, t<? 
amuse the vulgar. 

The Druid temple is represented to have been nothing 
more than a consecrated wood. The ancients speak of no 
other. But monuments remain which show that the Druids 
were not hi this respect wholly confined to groves. They 
had also a species of building, which in all probability 
was destined to religious use. This sort of structure 
was indeed without walls or roof. It was a colonnade, 
generally circular, of huge rude stones, sometimes single, 
sometimes double ; sometimes with, often without, an 



THE DRUIDS. 121 

arcliitrave. These open temples were not in all respects 
peculiar to tlie Northern nations. Those of the Greeks 
which were dedicated to the celestial gods, ought in strict- 
ness to have had no roof, and were thence called Hy~ 
pcethra. 

Many of these monuments remain in the British islands, 
curious for their antiquity, or astonishing for the greatness 
of the work ; enormous masses of rock, so poised as to bo 
set in motion with the slightest touch, yet not to he pushed 
from their place by a very great power : vast altars, pecu- 
liar and mystical in their structure, thrones, basins, heaps 
or kearns ; and a variety of other works, displaying a wild 
industry, and a strange mixture of ingenuity and rudeness. 
But they are all worthy of attention ; not only as such 
monuments often clear up the . darkness, and supply the 
defects, of history, but as they lay open a noble field of 
speculation for those who study the changes which have 
happened in the manners, opinions, and sciences of men, 
and who think them as worthy of regard as the fortune 
of wars, and the revolutions of kingdoms. 

The short account wliich I have here given does not con- 
tain the whole of what is handed down to us by ancient 
"writers, or discovered by modern research, concerning this 
remarkable order. But I have selected those which appear 
to me the most striking features, and such as throw the 
strongest light on the genius and true character of the Dra- 
idical institution. In some respects it was undoubtedly 
very singular ; it stood out more from the body of the 
people than the priesthood of other nations ; and their 
knowledge and policy appeared the more striking by being 
contrasted with the great simplicity and rudeness of tlie 
people over whom they presided. But, notwithstanding 
some peculiar appearances and pmctices, it is impossible 
not to perceive a great conformity between this and the 
ancient orders which have been established for the purposes 



122 EDMUND BURKE. 

of religion in almost all countries. For, to say nothing of 
the resemblance which many have traced between this and 
the Jewish priesthood, the Persian Magi, and the India 
Brachmans, it did not so greatly differ from the Roman 
priesthood either in the original objects, or in the general 
mode of worship, or in the constitution of their hierarchy. 
In th-e original institution, neither of these nations had the 
use of images ; the rules of the Salian as well as Druid 
discipline were delivered in verse ; both orders were under 
an elective head ; and both were for a long time the law- 
yers of their country. So that when the order of Druids 
was suppressed by the emperors, it was rather from a dread 
of an influence incompatible with the Roman government, 
than from any dishke of their religious opinions. 



THE WITCHES DAUGHTER. 

By JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

IT was the pleasant harvest time, 
When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
And garrets bend beneath their load. 

And the old swallow-haunted barns — 
Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 
Thi'ough which the moted sunlight streams, 

And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
The red plumes of the roosted coclvs. 
And the loose haymow's scented locks — 

Ai-e filled with summer's ripened stores, 
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
From their low scaffolds to theii' eaves. 

On Esek Harden's oaken floor. 

With many an autumn threshing worn, 
Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 

And tliither came young men and maids, 
Beneath a moon that, large and low. 
Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 



124 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

They took their places ; some by chance, 
And others by a merry voice 
Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 

How pleasantly the rising moon, 
Between the shadow of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm boughs ! 

On sturdy boyhood sun-embrowned, 
On girlhood with its solid curves 
Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! 

And jests went round, and laughs that made 
The house-dog answer with his howl, 
And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; 

And quaint old songs their fathers sung, 
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
Ere Norman William trod their shores ; 

And tales, whose merry license shook 
The fat sides of the Saxon thane. 
Forgetful of the hovering Dane ! 

But still the sweetest voice was mute 
That river-valley ever heard. 
From lip of maid or thi'oat of bird ; 

For Mabel Martin sat apart, 

And let the haymow's shadow fall 
Upon the loveliest face of all. 

She sat apart, as one forbid, 

"Who knew that none would condescend 
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 



THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 125 

Tlie seasons scarce had gone tlieir round, 
Since curious thousands thronged to see 
Her mother on the gallows-tree ; 

And mocked the palsied limbs of age, 
That faltered on the fatal stairs. 
And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! 

Few questioned of the sorrowing child, 
Or, when they saw the mother die. 
Dreamed of the daugliter's agony. 

They went up to their homes that day. 
As men and Christians justified : 
God willed it, and the wretch had died ! 

Dear God and Father of us all, 
Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
Forgive the blindness that denies ! 

Forgive thy creature when he takes. 
For the all-perfect love thou art. 
Some grim creation of his heart. 

Cast down our idols, overturn 
Our bloody altars ; let us see 
Thyself in thy humanity ! 

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave 
Crept to her desolate hearthstone, 
And wrestled with her fate alone ; 

With love, and anger, and despair. 
The phantoms' of disordered sense, 
The awful doubts of Providence ! 



126 JOHN G. WHIT TIER. 

The school-boys jeered her as they passed 
And, when she sought the house of prayer, 
Her mother's curse pursued her there. 

And still o'er many a neighboring door 
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm. 
To guard against her mother's harm ; — 

That mother, poor, and sick, and lame. 
Who daily, by the old arm-chair. 
Folded her withered arms in prayer ; — 

Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail. 
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
When her dim eyes could read no more ! 

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
So dark, would somewhere fneet the day. 

And still her weary wheel went round 
Day after day, with no relief: 
Small leisure have the poor for grief. 

So in the shadow Mabel sits ; 

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears ; 
Her smile is sadder than her tears. 

But cruel eyes have found her out. 
And cruel lips repeat her name. 
And taunt her with her mother's shame. 

She answered not with railing words. 
But drew her apron o'er her face. 
And, sobbing, glided from the place. 



THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 127 

And only pausing at tlie door, 

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
Of one who, in her better days, 

Had been her warm and steady friend, 
Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
Even Esek Harden half afraid. 

He felt that mute appeal of tears, 
And, starting, with an angry frown 
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 

" Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
" This passes harmless mirth or jest ; 
I brook no insult to my guest. 

" She is indeed her mother's child ; 
But God's sweet pity ministers 
Unto no whiter soul than hers. 

'' Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; 
I never knew her harm a fly. 
And witch or not, God knows — not I. 

" I know who swore her life away ; 
And, as God lives, I 'd not condemn 
An Indian dog on word of them." 

The broadest lands in all the town, 
- The skill to guide, the power to awe, 
Were Harden's ; and his word was law. 

None dared withstand him to his face. 
But one sly maiden spake aside ; 
" The little witch is evil eyed ! 



128 JOHN G. WHITHER. 

" Her mother only killed a cow, 
Or witched a churn or dairy-j^an ; 
But she, forsooth, must charm a man ! " 

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, 
Sat by the window's narrow pane, 
White in the moonlight's silver rain. 

The river, on its pebbled rim, 

Made music such as cliildhood knew ; 
The door-yard tree was whispered through 

By voices such as childhood's ear 
Had heard in moonlights long ago ; 
And tlu-ough the willow boughs below 

She saw the rippled water shine ; 
Beyond, in waves of shade and light, 
The hills rolled off into the night. 

Sweet sounds and pictures mocldng so 
The sadness of her human lot. 
She saw and heard, but heeded not. 

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
And, in her old and simple way. 
To teach lier bitter heart to pray. 

Poor cliild ! the prayer, begun in faith, 
Grew to a low, despairing cry 
Of utter misery : " Let me die ! 

" 0, take me from the scornful eyes, 
And hide me where the cruel speech 
And mocking finger may not reach ! 



THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 129 

" I dare not breathe mj mother's name : 
A daughter's right I dare not crave 
To weep above her unblest gi-ave ! 

" Let me not live until my heart, 
With few to pity, and with none 
To love me, hardens into stone. 

" God ! have mercy on thy child. 

Whose faith in thee grows weak and small, 
And take me ere I lose it all ! " 

A shadow on the moonlight fell. 

And murmuring wind and wave became 
A voice whose burden was her name. 

Had then God heard her ? Had he sent 
His angel down ? In flesh and blood. 
Before her Esek Harden stood ? 

He laid his hand upon her ann : 

" Dear Mabel, this no more shall be ; 
Wlio scoffs at you, must scoff at me. 

" You know rough Esek Harden well ; 
And if he seems no suitor gay. 
And if his hair is touched with gray, 

" The maiden grown shall never find 

His heart less warm than when she smiled, 
Upon his knees, a little child ! " 

Her tears of grief were tears of joy. 
As, folded in his strong embrace. 
She looked in Esek Harden's face. 
9 



130 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

" 0, truest friend of all ! " she said, 

" God bless you for your kiudly thought, 
And make me worthy of my lot ! " 

He led her through his dewy fields, 

To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 
And through the doors the huskers showed. 

*' Good friends and neighbors ! " Esek said, 
" I 'm weary of this lonely life ; 
In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 

*' She greets you Idndly, one and all ; 
The past is past, and all offence 
Falls harmless from her innocence. 

" Henceforth she stands no more alone ; 
You know what Esek Harden is ; — 
He brooks no wrong to him or his," 

Now let the merriest tales be told. 
And let the sweetest songs be sung, 
That ever made the old heart young ! 

For now the lost has found a home ; 
And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 
As all the household joys return ! 

O, pleasantly the harvest moon. 
Between the shadow of the mows. 
Looked on them through the great elm boughs ! 

On Mabel's curls of golden hair 
On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; 
And the wind whispered, " It is well ! " 



THE OLD LADY, AND THE OLD GENTLEMiN 

By LEIGH HIIN^T. 

THE OLD LADY. 

IF the Old Lady is a widow and lives alone, the man- 
ners of her condition and time of life are so much the 
more apparent. She generally dresses in plain silks, that 
make a gentle rustling as she moves about the silence of 
her room; and she wears a nice cap with a lace border, 
that comes under the chin. In a placket at her side is an 
old enamelled watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer 
of her toilet, for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather 
tight and trim than otherwise, as she had a fine one when 
young ; and she is not sorry if you see a pau' of her stock- 
ings on a table, that you may be aware of the neatness of 
her leg and foot. Contented with these and other evident 
indications of a good shape, and letting her young friends 
understand that she can afford to obscure it a little, she 
wears pockets, and uses them well too. Li the one is 
her handkerchief, and any heavier matter that is not likely 
to come out with it, such as the change of a sixpence ; m 
the other is a miscellaneous assortment, consisting of a 
pocket-book, a bunch of keys, a needle-case, a spectacle- 
case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a smelling- 
bottle, and, according to the season, an orange or apple, 
which after many days she draws out, warm and glossy, 



132 LEIGH HUNT. 

to give to some little child that has well behaved itself. 
She generally occupies two rooms, in the neatest condition 
possible. In the chamber is a bed with a white coverlet, 
built up high and round, to look well, and with curtains 
of a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large plants, 
and shepherds and shepherdesses. On the mantel-piece 
are more shepherds and shepherdesses, with dot-eyed sheep 
at their feet, all in colored ware: the man, perhaps, in a 
j)ink jacket and knots of ribbons at his knees and shoes, 
holding liis crook lightly in one hand, and with the other 
at his breast, turning his toes out and looking tenderly at 
the shepherdess; the woman holding a crook also, and 
modestly returning his look, with a gypsy-hat jerked up 
behind, a very slender waist, with petticoat and hips to 
counteract, and the petticoat pulled up through the pocket- 
holes, in order to show the trimness of her. ankles. But 
these patterns, of course, are various. The toilet is an- 
cient, carved at the edges, and tied about with a snow- 
white drapery of muslin. Beside it are various boxes, 
mostly japan ; and the set of drawers are exquisite things 
for a little girl to rummage, if ever little gii'l be so bold, — 
containing ribbons and laces of various kinds ; linen smell- 
ing of lavender, of the flowers of wliich there is always 
dust in the corners; a heap of pocket-books for a series 
of years ; and pieces of dress long gone by, such as head- 
fronts, stomachers, and flowered satin shoes, with enormous 
heels. The stock of letters are under especial lock and 
key. So much for the bedroom. In the sitting-room is 
rather a spare assortment of shining old mahogany furni- 
ture, or carved arm-chairs equally old, with cliintz dra- 
peries down to the ground ; a folding or other screen, with 
Chinese figures, their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking 
sideways ; a stuiEFed bird, perhaps in a glass case (a living 
one is too much for her) ; a portrait of her husband over 
the mantelpiece, in a coat with frog-buttons, and a delicate 



THE OLD LADY. 133 

frilled hand lightly inserted in the waistcoat ; and opposite 
him on the wall is a piece of embroidered literature, 
framed and . glazed, containing some moral distich or maxim, 
worked in angular capital letters, with two trees or parrots 
below, in their proper colors ; the whole concluding with an 
ABC and numerals, and the name of the fair industrious, 
expressing it to be "her work, Jan. 14, 1762." The rest 
of the furniture consists of a looking-glass with carved 
edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock for the feet, a mat for 
the little dog, and a small set of shelves, in which arc 
the "Spectator" and "Guardian," the "Turkish Spy," a 
Bible and Prayer-Book, " Young's Night Thoughts," with a 
piece of lace in it to flatten, " IMrs. Rowe's Devout Exer- 
cises of the Heart," " Mrs. Glasse's Cookery," and perhaps 
" Sir Charles Grandison," and " Clarissa." " John Buncle " 
is in the closet among the picldes and preserves. The 
clock is on the landmg-place between the two room doors, 
where it ticks audibly but quietly; and the landing-place, 
as well as the stairs, is* carpeted to a nicety. The house 
is most in character, and properly coeval, if it is in a 
retired suburb, and strongly built, with wainscot rather 
than paper inside, and lockers in the windows. Before 
the windows should be some quivering poplars. Here the 
Old Lady receives a few quiet visitors to tea, and per- 
haps an early game at cards : or you may see her going 
out on the same kind of visit herself, with a light umbrella 
running up into a stick and crooked ivory handle, and her 
little dog, equally famous for his love to her and captious 
antipathy to strangers. Her grandchildren dislike him on 
holidays, and the boldest sometimes ventures to give him 
a sly kick under the table. When she returns at night, 
she appears, if the weather happens to be doubtful, in a 
calash ; and her servant in pattens, follows half beliind and 
half at her side, with a lantern. 

Her opinions are not many nor new. She thinks the 



134 LEIGH HUNT 

clergyman a nice man. The Duke of Wellington, in her 
opinion, is a very great man ; but she has a secret prefer- 
ence for the Marquis of Granby. She thinks the young 
women of the present day too forward, and the men not 
respectful enough; but hopes her grandchildren will be 
better; though she differs with her daughter in several 
points respecting their management. She sets little value 
on the new accomplishments; is a great though delicate 
connoisseur in butcher's meat and all sorts of housewifery ; 
and if you mention waltzes, expatiates on the grace and 
fine breeding of the minuet. She longs to have seen one 
danced by Sir Charles Grandison, whom she almost con- 
siders as a real person. She likes a walk of a summer's 
evening, but avoids the new streets, canals, &c., and some- 
times goes through the churchyard, where her cliildren 
and her husband lie buried, serious, but not melancholy. 
She has had three great epochs in her life: her mar- 
riage, — her having been at court, to see the King and 
Queen and Royal Family, — and a compliment on her fig- 
ure she once received, in passing, from Mr. Wilkes, whom 
she describes as a sad, loose man, but engaging. His 
plainness she thinks much exaggerated. If anything takes 
her at a distance from home, it is still the court ; but she 
seldom stirs, even for that. The last time but one that 
she went, was to see the Duke of Wurtemberg ; and most 
probably for the last time of all, to see the Princess Char- 
lotte and Prince Leopold. From tliis beatific vision she 
returned with the same admiration as ever for the fine, 
comely appearance of the Duke of York and the rest of 
the family, and great delight at having had a near view 
of the Prmcess, whom she speaks of with smiling pomp 
and lifted mittens, clasping them as passionately as she 
can together, and calling her, in a transport of mixed 
loyalty and self-love, a fine royal young creature, and 
" Daughter of England." 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 135 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 

OUR Old Gentleman, in order to be exclusively him- 
self, must be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose 
the former. We do not mention his precise age, which 
would be invidious : nor whether he wears his own hair or 
a wig ; which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, 
it is a compromise between the more modern scratch and 
the departed glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is 
white, in spite of his favorite grandson, who used to get 
on the chair behmd him, and pull the silver hairs out, ten 
years ago. If he is bald at top, the hair-dresser, hovering 
and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care 
to give the bald place as much powder as the covered ; 
in order that he may convey to the sensorium within a 
pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits 
of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat ; and, in 
warm weather, is proud of opening his waistcoat half-way 
down, and letting so much of his frill be seen, in order to 
show his hardiness as well as taste. His watch and shirt- 
buttons are of the best ; and he does not care if he has 
two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at 
the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day 
to the nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it 
right. He has a cane at home, but seldom uses it, on 
finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He has 
a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts liigher 
from his head than the round one, when bowed to. In 
his pockets are two handkerchiefs (one for the neck at 
night-time), his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The 
pocket-book, among other tilings, contains a receipt for 
a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an 
old magazine, on the lovely Duchess of A., beginning, 
" When beauteous Mira walks the plain " 



136 LEIGH HUNT. 

He intends this for a commonplace-book which he keeps, 
consisting of passages in verse and prose, cut out of news- 
papers and magazines, and pasted in columns ; some of 
them rather gay. His principal other books are Shake- 
speare's Plays and Milton's Paradise Lost ; the Spectator, 
the History of England, the Works of Lady M. W. Mon- 
tague, Pope, and Churchill ; Middleton's Geography ; the 
Gentleman's Magazine ; Sir John Sinclair on Longevity ; 
several plays with portraits in character ; Account of Eliz- 
abeth Canning, Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical 
Amusements at Bath-Easton, Blair's Works, Elegant Ex- 
tracts ; Junius as originally published ; a few pamphlets 
on the American War, and Lord George Gordon, &c., 
and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting-rooms 
are some engravings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua ; an 
engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby ; ditto of M. 
le Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney ; a 
humorous piece after Penny ; and a portrait of himself, 
painted by Sir Joshua. His wife's portrait is in his cham- 
ber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping 
forward with a smile, and a pointed toe, as if going to 
dance. He lost her when she was sixty. 

The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends 
to live at least twenty years longer. He continues to 
take tea for breakfast, in spite of what is said against its 
nervous effects ; having been satisfied on that point some 
years ago by Dr. Johnson's criticism on Hanway, and a 
great liking for tea previously. His china cups and sau- 
cers have been broken since his wife's death, all but one, 
which is religiously kept for his use. He passes liis morn- 
ing in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, looking 
after his India bonds or some such money securities, fur- 
thering some subscription set on foot by his excellent 
friend Sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his 
portfolio. He also hears of the newspapers ; not caring 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 137 

to see tliem till after dinner at tlie coffee-house. He may 
also clieapen a fish or so ; the fishmonger soliciting liis 
doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recog- 
nition. He eats a pear before dinner. 

His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at 
the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by 
the accustomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the 
fish would be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He 
eats no tart ; or if he ventures on a little, takes cheese 
with it. Yoii might as soon attempt to persuade him out 
of his senses as that cheese is not good for digestion. 
He takes port ; and if he has drunk more than usual, 
and in a more private place, may be induced, by some 
respectful inquiries respecting the old style of music, to 
sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, such 

as, 

" Cliloe, by that borrowed kiss," 
or, 

" Come, gentle god of soft repose," 

or his wife's favorite ballad, beginning, 

"At Upton on the hill, 
There lived a happy pair." 

Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee- 
room ; but he will canvass the theory of that matter there 
with you, or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the 
theatres, or the merits of " my lord North " or " my lord 
Eockingliam " ; for he rarely says simply, lord ; it is gen- 
erally " my lord," trippingly and genteelly off the tongue. 
If alone after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper ; 
which he prepares to read by wiping his spectacles, care- 
fully adjusting them on his eyes, and di'awing the candle 
close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his ocular 
aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at 
arm's length, and dropping his eyelids half down and his 



138 LEIGH HUNT. 

moutli lialf open, tal^es cognizance of tlie day's Informa- 
tion. If he leaves- off, it is only when the door is opened 
by a new-comer, or when he suspects somebody is over- 
anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occa- 
sions he gives an important hem ! or so ; and resumes. 

In the evening, our Old Gentleman is fond of going to 
the theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoys 
the latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play 
with some friends whom he has known for many years ; 
but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and 
scientific ; and the privilege is extended to younger men 
of letters ; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not. that 
he is a miser, but to win money at cards is like proving 
his victory by getting the baggage ; and to win of a 
younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat 
him at rackets. He breads up early, whether at home 
or abroad. 

At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He 
comes early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, 
and sits patiently waiting for the drawing up of the cur- 
tain, with his hands placidly lying one over the other on 
the top of Ms stick. He generously admires some of 
the best performers, but thinks them far inferior to Gar- 
rick, "Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes, he 
is anxious that the little boy should see. 

He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but 
likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear 
it in comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks everytliing 
looks poor, flaring, and jaded. " Ah ! " says he, with a 
sort of triumphant sigh, " Eanelagh was a noble place ! 
Such taste, such elegance, such beauty ! There was the 
Duchess of A., the finest woman in England, sir ; and 
IVIrs. L., a mighty fine creature ; and Lady Susan what's 
her name, that had that unfortunate affair with Sir Charles. 
Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans." 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 139 

The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his 
slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes 
home. He is also extremely choice in his snuff, and de- 
lights to get a fresh box-full in Tavistock Street, in his 
way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from India. 
He calls favorite young ladies by their Cln-istian names, 
however slightly acquainted with them ; and has a privi 
lege of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every 
species of lady, on the least holiday occasion. If the hus- 
band, for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he 
instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on 
the cheek. The wife then says, " My niece, sir, from 
the country " ; and he kisses the niece. The niece, see- 
ing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, " My 
cousin Harriet, sir " ; and lie kisses the cousin. He 
" never recollects such weather," except during the " Great 
Frost," or when he rode down -with " Jack Skrimshire to 
Newmarket." He grows young again in liis little grand- 
children, especially the one which he tliinks most Hke him- 
self; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best, perhaps, 
the one most resembhng his wife ; and will sit with him 
on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of 
an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, 
and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general 
who Avas the father of Zebedee's children. If his grand- 
sons are at school, he often goes to see them ; and makes 
them blush by telling the master or the upper scholars, 
that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He 
is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds 
that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog 
in his youth ; " a. very sad dog, sir ; mightily set upon 
a short life audi a merry one." 

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole 
evenings, and say little or nothing ; but informs you, that 
there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper) — " She '11 talk." 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON 



By WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



THE calmness of this noontide hour, 
The shadow of this wood, 
The fragrance of e^ch wilding flower, 

Are marveUonsly good ; 
O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm 
Of Nature's solitude ! 

It is a most delicious calm 
That resteth everywhere, — 

The holiness of soul-sung psalm, 
Of felt but voiceless prayer ! 

With hearts too full to speak their bliss, 
God's creatui-es silent are. 

They silent are ; but not the less 

In this most tranquil hour 
Of deep, unbroken dreaminess. 

They own that Love and Power 
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests 

On every leaf and flower. 

How silent are the song-filled nests 
That crowd this drowsy tree, — 



A SABBATH SOIMER XOON. 141 

How mute is every feathered breast 

That swelled with melody ! 
And yet bright bead-like eyes declare 

This hour is ecstasy. 

Heart forth ! as uncaged bird through aii 

And mingle in the tide 
Of blessed things, that, lacking care, 

Now full of beauty glide 
Around thee, in their angel hues 

Of joy and sinless pride. 

Here, on this green bank that o'erviews 

The far-retreating glen. 
Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse, 

Of all within thy ken ; 
For lovelier scene shall never break 

On thy dimmed sight again. 

Slow stealing from the tangled brake 

That skirts the distant hill, 
With noiseless hoof, two bright fawns make 

For yonder lapsing rill ; 
Meek children of the forest gloom, 

Drink on, and fear no ill ! 

And buried in the yellow broom 

That crowns the neighboring height, 

Couches a loutish shepherd groom, 
"With all his flocks in sight ; 

Which dot the green braes gloriously 
With spots of living light. 

It is a sight that filleth me 
With meditative joy, 



142 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

To mark these dumb tilings curiously 
Crowd round their guardian boy ; 

As if they felt this Sabbath hour 
Of bliss lacked aU alloy. 

I bend me towards the tiny flower, 
That underneath this tree 

Opens its little breast of sweets 
In meekest modesty, 

And breathes the eloquence of love 
In muteness, Lord ! to thee. 

There is no breath of wind to move 
The flag-like leaves, that spread 

Then- grateful shadow far above 
This turf-supported head ; 

All sounds are gone, — all murmuring® 
With living nature wed. 

The babbling of the clear well-springs, 
The whisperings of the trees, 

And all the cheerful jargonings 
Of feathered hearts at ease. 

That whilom filled the vocal wood, 
Have hushed their minstrelsies. . 

The silentness of night doth brood 
O'er this bright summer noon ; 

And Nature, in her holiest mood. 
Doth all things well attune 

To joy, in the religious dreams 
Of green and leafy June. 

Far down the glen in distance gleams 
The hamlet's tapering spire, 



A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. 143 

And, glittering in meridial beams, 

Its vane is tongued with fire ; 
And hark how sweet its silvery bell, — 

And hark the rustic choir ! 

The holy sounds float up the dell 

To fill my ravished ear, 
And now the glorious anthems swell 

Of worsliippers sincere, — 
Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed 

Faith's penitential tear. 

Dear Lord ! thy shadow is forth spread! 

On all mine eye can see ; 
And, filled at the pure fountain-head 

Of deepest piety, 
My heart loves all created things, 

And travels home to thee. 

Around me while the sunshine flings 

A flood of mocky gold. 
My chastened spirit once more sings, 

As it was wont of old. 
That lay of gratitude which burst 

From young heart uncontrolled. 

When in the midst of nature nursed. 

Sweet influences fell 
On chilly hearts that were athirst, 

Like soft dews in the bell 
Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads 

And breathed a fresher smell, — 

So, even now this hour hath sped 
In rapturous thought o'er me. 



144 WILLUM MOTHERWELL. 

Feeling myself with nature wed, — 

A holy mystery, — 
A part of earth, a part of heaven, 

A part. Great God ! of thee. 

Fast fade the cares of life's dull sweven, 

They perish as the weed. 
While unto me the power is given, 

A moral deep to read 
In every silent throe of mind 

External beauties breed. 



•^"m 



/.^S, 




E/igra-ved 'irr HYvTSnitli flora a rictuxe i" JolniLT.Lca3 , 



A.A.yt^^/-^ 



THE INCENDIARr. 

By MAEY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

NO one that had the misfortune to reside during the last 
winter in the disturbed districts of the south of Eng- 
land mil ever forget the awful impression of that terrible 
• time. The stilly gatherings of the misguided peasantry 
amongst the wild hills, partly heath and partly woodland, 
of which so much of the northern part of Hampshire is com- 
posed, — dropping in one by one, and two by two in the 
gloom of evening, or the dim twilight of a November morn- 
ing ; or the open and noisy meetings of determined men at 
noontide in the streets and greens of our Berksliire villages, 
and even sometimes in the very churchyards, sallying forth 
in small but resolute numbei^s to collect money or destroy 
machinery, and compeUing or persuading their fellow-labor- 
ers to join them at every farm they visited ; or the sudden 
appearance and disappearance of .these large bodies, who 
sometimes remained together to the amount of several hun- 
dreds for many days, and sometimes dispersed, one scarcely 
knew how, in a few hours ; their daylight marches on the 
high road, regular and orderly as those of an army, or 
their midnight visits to lonely houses, lawless and terrific as 
the descent of pirates or the incursions of banditti ; — all 
brought close to us a state of things which we never thought 
to have witnessed in peaceful and happy England. In the 
sister island, indeed, we had read of such horrors, but now 
they were brought home to our very household hearths ; we 
10 



146 MARY RUSSELL MITFOED. 

tasted of fear, tlie bitterest cup that an imaginative woman 
can taste, in all its agonizing varieties ; and felt, by sad 
experience, the tremendous difference between that distant 
report of danger, with which we had so often lancied that 
we sympathized, and the actual presence of danger itself. 
Such events are salutary, inasmuch as they show to the 
human heart its own desperate self-deceit. I could not but 
smile at the many pretty letters of condolence and fellow- 
feeling which I received from writers who wTote far too well 
to feel anythmg, who most evidently felt nothing ; but the 
smile was a melancholy one, — for I recollected how often, 
not intending to feign, or suspecting that I was feigning, I 
myself had written such. 

Nor were the preparations for defence, however neces- 
sary, less shocking than the apprehensions of attack. The 
hourly visits of bustling parish officers, bristling with impor- 
tance (for our village, though in the centre of the insur- 
gents, continued uncontaminated, — " faithful amidst the un- 
faithful found," — and was, therefore, quite a rallying-point 
for loyal men and true) ; the swearing in of whole regi- 
ments of petty constables ; the stationary watchmen, who 
every hour, to prove their vigilance, sent m some poor 
wretch, beggar or match-seller, or rambling child, under the 
denomination of suspicious persons ; the mounted patrol, 
whose deep " All 's well ! " which ought to have been consola- 
tory, was about the most alarming of all alarming sounds ; 
the soldiers, transported from place to place in carts the bet- 
ter to catch the rogues, whose local knowledge gave them 
great advantage in a dispersal; the grave processions of 
magistrates and gentlemen on horseback ; and above all, 
the nightly collecting of arms and armed men within our 
own dwelling, kept up a continual sense of nervous inquie- 
tude. 

Fearful, however, as were the realities, the rumors were 
a hundred-fold more alarming. Not an hour passed, but, 



THE INCENDIAEY. 147 

from some quarter or other, reports came pouring in of mobs 
gathering, mobs assembled, mobs marching upon us. Now 
the high roads were blockaded by the rioters, travellers 
murdered, soldiers defeated, and the magistrates, who had 
gone out to meet and harangue them, themselves surrounded 
and taken by the desperate multitude. Now the artisans — 
the commons, so to say, of B. — had risen to join the peas- 
antry, driving out the gentry and tradespeople, while they 
took possession of their houses and property, and only de- 
taining the mayor and aldermen as hostages. Now that 
illustrious town held loyal, but was besieged. Now the mob 
had carried the place ; and artisans, constables, tradespeople, 
soldiers, and magistrates, the mayor and corporation included, 
were murdered to a man, to say nothing of women and chil- 
dren ; the market-place running with blood, and the town- 
hall piled with dead bodies. This last rumor, which was 
much to the taste of our villagers, actually prevailed for 
several hours ; terrified maid-servants ran shrieking about 
the house, and every corner of the village street realized 
Shakespeare's picture of " a smith swallowing a tailor's 
news." 

So passed the short winter's day. With the approach of 
night came fresh sorrows ; the red glow of fires gleaming on 
the horizon, and mounting into the middle sky ; the tolling 
of bells ; and the rumbling sound of the engines clattering 
along from place to place, and often, too often, rendered 
useless by the cutting of the pipes after they had begun to 
play, — a dreadful aggravation of the calamity, since it 
proved that among those who assembled, professedly to help, 
were to be found favorers and abettors of the concealed in- 
cendiaries. the horrors of those fires, — breaking forth 
night after night, sudden, yet expected, always seeming 
nearer than they actually were, and always said to have 
been more mischievous to life and property than they actu- 
ally had been ! Mischievous enough they were, Heaven 



148 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

knows ! A terrible and unholy abuse of the most beau- 
tiful and comfortable of the elements ! — a sinful destruc' 
tion of the bounties of Providence ! — an awful crime 
against God and man ! Shocking it was to behold the 
peasantry of England becoming familiarized with this 
"iremendous power of evil, — this desperate, yet most cow- 
vrdly sin ! 

The blow seemed to fall, too, just where it might least have 
"^een looked for, — on the unoffending, the charitable, the 
■und ; on those who were known only as the laborer's friends ; 
».o impoverish whom was to take succor, assistance and pro- 
tttctioii from the poor. One of the objects of attack in our 
ufTii immediate neighborhood was a widow lady, between 
eighty and ninety, the best of the good, the kindest of the 
kind. Occuxrences like this were in every way dreadful. 
They made us fear (and such fear is a revengeful passion, 
and comes ne^vr to hate) the larger half of our species 
They weakened our faith in human nature. 

The revulsion was, however, close at hand. A time came 
which changed the current of our feelings, — a time of ret- 
ribution. The fires wde quenched ; the riots were put 
down ; the chief of the rixjters were taken. Examination 
and commitment were the oider of the day; the crowded 
jails groaned with their overload of wretched prisoners ; sol- 
diers were posted at every avenue to guard against possible 
escape ; and every door was watched night and day by 
iniserable women, the wives, mothers, or daughters of the 
culprits, praying for admission to their unfortunate relatives. 
The danger was fairly over, and pity had succeeded to 
fear. 

Then, above all, came the special commission : the judges 
in threefold dignity ; the array of counsel ; the crowded 
court ; the solemn trial ; the awful sentence ; — all the more 
impressive from the merciful feeling wliich pervaded the 
govermnent, the counsel, and the court. My father, a very 



THE KCEJs'DIARY. l-iO 

old magistrate, being chairman of the bench, as well as one 
of the grand jury, and the then high sheriff, with whom it 
is every way an honor to claim acquaintance, being his inti- 
mate friend, I saw and knew more of the j^roceedings of 
this stirring time than usually falls to the lot of women, and 
took a deep interest in proceedings which had in them a 
thrilling excitement, as far beyond acted tragedy as truth 
is beyond fiction. 

I shall never forget the hushed silence of the auditors, a 
dense mass of human bodies, the heads only visible, ranged 
tier over tier to the very ceiling of the lofty hall ; the rare 
and strildng importance which that silence and the awful- 
ness of the occasion gave to the mere official forms of a 
court of justice, generally so hastily slurred over and slightly 
attended to; the unusual seriousness of the counsel; the 
watchful gravity of the judges; and, more than all, the 
appearance of the prisoners themselves, belonging mostly to 
the younger classes of the peasantry, such men as one is 
accustomed to see in the fields, on the road, or the cricket- 
ground, with sunbm'nt faces, and a total absence of reflection 
or care, but who now, under the influence of a keen and bit- 
ter anxiety, had acquired not only the sallow paleness proper 
to a prison, but the look of suffering and of thought, the 
brows contracted and brought low over the eyes, the general 
sharpness of feature and elongation of countenance, which 
give an expression of intellect, a certain momentary eleva- 
tion, even to the commonest and most vacant of human faces. 
Such is the power of an absorbing passion, a great and en- 
grossing grief. One man only amongst the large number 
whom I heard arraigned (for they were brought out by tens 
and by twenties) would, perhaps, under other circumstances, 
have been accounted handsome ; yet a painter would at that 
moment have found studies in many. 

T shall never forget, either, the impression made on my 
mind by one of the witnesses. Several men had been ar- 



150 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

raigned together for macliine-Lreaking. All but one of them 
had employed counsel for their defence, and under their 
direction had called witnesses to character, the most respect- 
able whom they could find, — the clergy and overseers of 
their respective parishes, for example, — masters with whom , 
they had lived, neighboring farmers or gentry, or even 
magistrates, — all that they could muster to grace or credit 
their cause. One poor man alone had retained no counsel, 
offered no defence, called no witness, though the evidence 
against him was by no means so strong as that against his 
fellow-prisoners ; and it was clear that his was exactly the 
case in which testimony to character would be of much 
avail. The defences had ended, and the judge was begin- 
ning to sum up, when suddenly a tall, gaunt, upright figure, 
with a calm, thoughtful brow, and a determined but most 
respectful demeanor, appeared in the witnesses' box. He 
was dressed in a smock-frock, and was clean and respect- 
able in appearance, but evidently poor. The judge inter- 
rupted himself m his charge to inquire the man's business ; 
and hearing that he was a voluntary witness for the unde- 
fended prisoner, proceeded to question him, when the fol- 
lowing dialogue took place. The witness's replies, which 
seemed to me then, and still do so, very strildng from their 
directness and manliness, were delivered with the same 
humble boldness of tone and manner that characterized the 
words. 

Judge. " You are a witness for the prisoner, an unsum- 
moned witness ? " 

" I am, my lord. I heard that he was to be tried to-day, 
and have walked twenty miles to speak the truth of him, as 
one poor man may do of another." 
" What is your situation in life ? " 
" A laborer, my lord ; nothing but a day-laborer." 
" How long have you known the prisoner ? " 
"As long as I have known anything. We were play- 



THE INCENDIARY. 151 

mates together, went to the same school, have lived in the 
same parish. I have known him all my life." 

" And what character has he borne ? " 

"As good a character, my lord, as a man need work 
under." 

It is pleasant to add, that this poor man's humble testi- 
mony was read from the judge's notes, and mentioned in the 
judge's charge, with full as much respect, perhaps a little 
more, than the evidence of clergymen and magistrates for 
the rest of the accused; and that, principally from this 
direct and simple tribute to his character, the prisoner in 
question was acquitted. 

To return, however, from my evil habit of digressing (if 
I may use an Irish phrase) before I begin, and making my 
introduction longer than my story, a simple sin to which in 
many instances, and especially in this, I am fain to plead 
guilty; — to come back to my title and my subject, — I 
must inform my courteous readers, that the case of arson 
which attracted most attention and excited most interest in 
this part of the country, was the conflagration of certain 
ricks, barns, and farm-buildings, in the occupation of Eich- 
ard Mayne ; and that, not so much from the value of the 
property consumed (though that value was considerable), as 
on account of the character and situation of the prisoner, 
whom, after a long examination, the magistrates found them- 
selves compelled to commit for the offence. I did not hear 
this trial, the affair having occurred in the neighboring coun- 
ty, and do not, therefore, vouch for " the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth," as one does when an ear- 
mtness ; but the general outline of the story will suffice for 
our purpose. 

Richard Mayne was a wealthy yeoman of the old school, 
sturdy, boisterous, bold, and kind, always generous, and gen- 
erally good-natured, but cross-grained and obstinate by fits, 
and sometimes purse-proud, — after the fashion of men who 



152 MARY EUSSELL MITFORD. 

have made money by their own industry and shrewdness. 
He had married late in life, and above him in station, and 
had now been for two or three years a widower, with one 
only daughter, a girl of nineteen, of whom he was almost as 
fond as of his greyhound Mayfly, and for pretty much the 
same reason, — that both were beautiful a:nd gentle, and his 
own, and both admired and coveted by others, — that May 
fly had won three cups, and that Lucy had refused four 
offers. 

A sweet and graceful creature was Lucy Mayne. Her 
mother, a refined and cultivated woman, the daughter of an 
unbeneficed clergyman, had communicated, perhaps uncon- 
sciously, much of her own taste to her daughter. It is true, 
that most young ladies, even of her own station, would have 
looked with great contempt on Lucy's acquirements, who 
neither played nor drew, and was wKoUy, in the phrase of 
the day, unaccomplished; but then she read Shakespeare 
and Milton, and the poets and prose-writers of the Jameses' 
and Charleses' times, with a perception and relish of their 
beauty very uncommon in a damsel under twenty; and 
when her father boasted of his Lucy as the cleverest as well 
as the prettiest lass within ten miles, he was not so far 
wrong as many of his hearers were apt to think him. 

After all, the person to whom Lucy's education owed 
most was a relation of her mother's, a poor relation, who, 
being left a widow with two children almost totally destitute, 
was permitted by Richard Mayne to occupy one end of a 
small farm-house, about a mile from the old substantial 
manorial residence which he himself inhabited, whilst he 
farmed the land belonging to both. Nothing could ex- 
ceed his kindness to the widow and her family ; and Mi's. 
Owen, a delicate and broken-spirited woman, who had known 
better days, and was now left with a sickly daughter and a 
promising son dependent on the precarious charity of rela- 
tives and friends, found in the free-handed and open-hearted 



THE INCENDIARY. 153 

farmer and ■ his cliarming little girl her only comfort. He 
even restored to her the blessing of her son's society, who 
had hitherto earned his living by writing for an attorney in 
the neighboring town, but whom her wealthy kinsman now 
brought home to hel", and established as the present assist- 
ant and future successor of the master of a well-endowed 
grammar-school in the parish, Farmer Mayne being ono 
of the trustees, and all-powerful with the other function- 
aries joined in the trust, and the then schoolmaster in so 
^vretched a state of health as almost to insure a speedy 
vacancy. 

In most instances, such an exertion of an assumed rather 
than a legitimate authority, would have occasioned no small 
prejudice against the party protected ; but Philip Owen was 
not to be made unpopular, even by the unpopularity of liis 
patron. Gentle, amiable, true, and kind, — kind, both in 
word and deed, — it was found absolutely impossible to dis- 
like him. He was clever, too, very clever, with a remark- 
able aptitude for teaching, as both parents and boys soon 
found to their mutual satisfaction ; for the progress of one 
half-year of his instruction equalled that made in a twelve- 
month under the old regime. He must also, one should 
think, have been fond of teaching, for, after a hard day's 
fagging at Latin and English, and writing, and accounts, 
and all the drudgery of a boys' school, he would make a 
circuit of a mile and a half home in order to give Lucy 
Mayne a lesson in French or Italian. For a certain- 
ty, Philip Owen must have had a strong natural turn for 
playing the pedagogue, or he never would have gone so far 
out of his way just to read Fenelon and Alfieri with Lucy 
Mayne. 

So for two happy years matters continued. At the expi- 
ration of that time, just as the old schoolmaster, who de- 
clared that nothmg but Philip's attention had kept him alive 
so long, was evidently on his death-bed, Farmer Majr-.,e sud- 



154 MARY EUSSELL MITFOKD. 

(lenly turned Mrs. Owen, her son, and lier sick daughter out 
of the house, which, by his permission, they had hitherto 
occupied ; and declared publicly, that whilst he held an 
acre of land in the parish, Philip Owen should never be 
elected master of the grammar-school, — a threat which 
there was no doubt of his being able to carry into effect. 
The. young man, however, stood his ground ; and sending 
off his mother and sister to an uncle in Wales, who had 
lately written kindly to them, hired a room at a cottage in 
the village, determined to try the event of an election, which 
the languishing state of the incumbent rendered inevitable. 

The cause of Farmer Mayne's inveterate dislike to one 
whom he had so warmly protected, and whose conduct, man- 
ners, and temper had procured him friends wherever he was 
known, nobody could assign with any certainty. Perhaps 
he had unwittingly trodden on Mayfly's foot, or had opposed 
some prejudice of her master's, — but his general careful- 
ness not to hurt anything, or offend anybody, rendered either 
of these conjectures equally improbable ; — perhaps he had 
been found only too amiable by the farmer's other pet, - — 
those lessons in languages were -dangerous things ! — and 
when Lucy was seen at church with a pale face and red 
eyes, and when his landlord Squire Hawkins's blood-hunter 
was seen every day at Farmer Mayne's door, it became cur- 
rently reported and confidently believed, that the cause of 
the quarrel was a love affair between the cousins, which the 
farmer was determined to break off, in order to bestow his 
daughter on the young lord of the manor. 

Affairs had been in tliis posture for about a fortnight, and 
the old schoolmaster was just dead, when a fire broke out in 
the rick-yard of Farley Court, and Philip Owen was appre- 
hended and committed as the incendiary! The astonish- 
ment of the neighborhood was excessive ; the rector and 
half the farmers of the place offered to become bail ; but the 
offence was not bailable ; and the only consolation left for 



THE INCENDIARY. 155 

tlie friends of the unhappy young man, was the knowledge 
that the trial would speedily come on, and their internal 
conviction that an acquittal was certain. 

As time wore on, however, their confidence diminished. 
The evidence against him was terribly strong. He had been 
observed lurking about the rick-yard with a lantern, in 
which a light was burning, by a lad in the employ of 
Farmer Mayne, who had gone thither for hay to fodder his 
(jattle, about an hour before the fire broke out. At eleven 
o'clock the haystack was on fire, and at ten Robert Doyle 
had mentioned to James Wliite, another boy in Farmer 
Mayne's service, that he had seen Mr. Philip Owen behind 
the great rick. Farmer Mayne himself had met him at 
half past ten (as he was returning from B. market) in the 
lane leading from the rick-yard towards the village, and had 
observed him tlii'ow something he held in his hand into the 
ditch. Humphry Harris, a constable employed to seek, for 
evidence, had found the next morning a lantern, answering 
to that described by Hobert Doyle, in the part of the ditch 
indicated by Farmer Mayne, which Thomas Brown, the vil- 
lage shopkeeper, in whose house Owen slept, identified as 
having lent to his lodger in the early part of the evening. 
A silver pencil, given to Owen by the mother of one of his 
pupils, and bearing his full name on the seal at the end, was 
found close to where the fire was discovered ; and, to crown 
all, the curate of the village, with whom the young man's 
talents and character had rendered him a deserved favorite, 
had unwillingly deposed that he had said " it might be in his 
power to take a great revenge on Farmer Mayne," or words 
to that effect ; whilst a letter was produced from the accused 
to the farmer himself, intimating that one day he would be 
sorry for the oppression which he had exercised towards 
him and his. These two last facts were much relied upon 
as evincing malice, and implying a purpose of revenge from 
the accused towards the prosecutor ; yet there were many 



156 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 

who thought that the previous circumstances might well 
account for them without reference to the present occur- 
rence, and that the conflagration of the ricks and farm- 
buildings might, under the spirit of the time (for fires were 
raging every night in the surrounding villages), be merely a 
remarkable coincidence. The young man himself simply 
denied the fact of setting fire to any part of the property or 
premises ; inquired earnestly whether any lives had been 
lost, and still more earnestly after the health of Miss Lucy ; 
and on finding that she had been confined to her bed by 
fever and delirium, occasioned, as was supposed, by the 
fright, ever since that unhappy occurrence, relapsed into a 
gloomy silence, and seemed to feel no concern or interest in 
the issue of the trial. 

His friends, nevertheless, took kind and zealous measures 
for his defence, — engaged counsel, sifted testimony, and 
used every possible means, in the assurance of his innocence, 
to trace out the true incendiary. Nothing, however, could 
be discovered to weaken the strong chain of circumstantial 
evidence, or to impeach the credit of the mtnesses,.who, with 
the exception of the farmer himself, seemed all friendly to 
the accused, and most distressed at being obliged to bear tes- 
timony against him. On the eve of the trial, the most zeal- 
ous of his friends could find no ground of hope, except in 
the chances of the day ; Lucy, for whom alone the prisoner 
asked, being still confined by severe illness. 

The judges arrived, — -the whole terrible array of the 
special commission ; the introductory ceremonies were gone 
through ; the cause was called on, and the case proceeded 
with little or no deviation from the evidence already cited. 
When called upon for diis defence, the prisoner again asked 
if Lucy Mayne were in coiu-t ? and hearing that she was 
ill in her father's house, declined entering into any defence 
whatsoever. Witnesses to character, however, pressed for- 
ward, — liis old master, the attorney, the rector and curate 



thp: incendiary. 157 

of the parish, half the farmers of the village, everybody, in 
short, who ever had an opportunity of knowing liim, even 
liis reputed rival, JMr. Hawkins, who, speaking, he said, on 
.the authority of one who knew him well, professed himself 
confident that he could not be guilty of a bad action, — a 
piece of testimony that seemed to strike and affect the pris- 
oner more than anything that had passed ; — evidence to 
character crowded into court ; — but all was of no avail 
against the strong chain of concurrent facts ; and the judge 
was preparing to sum up, and the jury looking as if they 
had already condemned, when suddenly a piercing shriek 
was heard in the hall, and pale, tottering, dishevelled, 
Lucy J^Iayne rushed into her father's arms, and cried 
out, with a shrill, despairing voice, that " she was the only 
guilty ; that she had set fii-e to the rick ; and that if they 
killed Philip Owen for her crime, they would be guilty of 
murder." 

The general consternation may be imagined, especially 
that of the farmer, who had left his daughter almost insen- 
sible with illness, and still thought her light-headed. Medi- 
cal assistance, however, was immediately summoned, and it 
then appeared that what she said was most true ; that the 
lovers, for such they were, had been accustomed to deposit 
letters in one corner of that unlucky hay-rick ; that having 
seen from her chamber-window Philip Owen leaving the 
yard, she had flown with a taper in her hand to secure the 
expected letter, and, alarmed at her father's voice, had ran 
away so hastily, that she had, as she now remembered, left 
the lighted taper amidst the hay ; that then the fire came, 
and all was a blank to her, until, recovering that morning 
from the stupor succeeding to delirium, she had heard that 
Philip Owen was to be tried for liis life from the effect of 
her carelessness, and had flown to save him she knew not 
how ! 

The sequel may be guessed ; Philip was, of course, ac- 



158 MART RUSSELL MITFORD. 

quitted ; everybody, even the, very judge, pleaded for the 
lovers ; the young landlord and generous rival added his 
good word ; and the schoolmaster of Farley and his pretty 
wife are at this moment one of the best and happiest couples 
in his Majesty's dominions. 







WISHING, 

By JOHN G. SAXE. 

F all amusements for the mind. 
From logic down to fishing, 
There is n't one that you can find 

So very cheap as " wishing." 
A very choice diversion too, 

If we but rightly use it. 

And not, as we are apt to do, 

Pervert it, and abuse it. 

I wish — a common wish indeed — 

My purse were somewhat fatter. 
That I might cheer the child of need, 

And not my pride to flatter ; 
That I might make Oppression reel. 

As only gold can make it. 
And break the Tyrant's rod of steel. 

As only gold can break it. 

I wish — that Sympathy and Love, 

And every human passion 
That has its origin above, 

Would come and keep in fashion ; 
That Scorn, and Jealousy, and Hate, 

And every base emotion, 
Were buried fifty fathom deep 

Beneath the waves of Ocean ! 



160 JOHN G. SAXE. 

I Avish — that friends were always true. 

And motives always pure ; 
I wish the good were not so few, 

I wish the bad were fewer ; 
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot 

To heed their pious teaching ; 
I wish that practising was not 

So different from preaching ! 

I wish — that modest worth might be 

Appraised with truth and candor ; 
I wish that innocence were free 

From treachery and slander ; 
I wish that men their vows would mind ; 

That women ne'er were rovers ;■ 
I wish that wives were always kind, 

And husbands always lovers ! 

I wish — in fine — that Joy and Mirth, 

And every good Ideal, 
May come erewhile, throughout the earth, 

To be the glorious Real ; 
Till God shall every creature bless 

With his supremest blessing, 
And Hope be lost in Happiness, 

And Wisliing in Possessing ! 



THE GEEAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS 

By CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE. 

THERE has never existed a great painter of History 
or Poetry who has not been great in portrait. Even 
Michael Angelo is no exception. There may not remain 
any painted portraits of known persons by his hand, but 
there are sculptured portraits by him, and it is impossible 
to look even at the engravings of the Prophets and Sibyls, 
without seeing that they are from a hand practised in 
portrait, a hand, too, that had acquired its power by the 
practice of literal exactness. " Fuseli distinguishes the 
styles, epic, dramatic, and historic, beautifully," says ISIr. 
Haydon. But I thinli, as I do of such distinctions gen- 
erally, that these are entirely imaginary ; and that the style 
of Michael Angelo is distinguished, as are all others, by 
the peculiar mind of the artist only. Haydon adds that, 
'•' the same instruments are used in all styles, men and 
women ; and no two men or women were ever the same 
in form, feature, or proportion. After Fuseli has said, 
' the detail of character is not consistent with the epic,' he 
goes on to show the great difference of character between 
each Prophet, as decided as any character chosen by Ra- 
phael in any of his more essentially dramatic works. ' Nor 
are the Sibyls,' continues Fuseli, ' those female oracles, less 
expressive or less individually marked.'" Thus, though 
Haydon was unwilling to abandon the classifications of 
11 



162 CHARLES EOBEET LESLIE. 

Fuseli, tlie contradiction involved in them did not escape 
him. 

There cannot be a doubt that Michael Angelo, had he 
devoted liimself to portrait only, would have been a super- 
lative portrait-painter ; for in his works we find everything 
in perfection that portrait requires, — dignity, the expres- 
sion of character, the highest perception of beauty, in man, 
woman, and child; and not only in the unfinished marble 
that adorns our Academy library, but in the smaller com- 
partments of the Sistine ceiling, the most natural and fa- 
miliar domestic incidents treated in the most graceful 
manner. It is right this should be remembered, because 
painters (as they fancy themselves) of High Art, who 
really have not the talents portrait requires, must not be 
allowed to class themselves with Michael Angelo, as long 
as they cannot do what he, in perfection, could do. 

Conspicuous as he stands among great portrait-painters, 
Vandyke is not first of the first. The attitudes of his 
single figures are often formal and unmeaning ; and his 
groups, however finely connected by composition, are sel- 
dom connected by sentiment. Fathers, mothers, sons, and 
daughters, stand or sit beside each other, as they stood or 
sat in his room, for the mere purpose of being painted ; 
and it is therefore the nicely discriminated individual char- 
acter of every head, the freshness and delicacy of liis color, 
and the fine treatment of his masses, that have placed him 
high among portrait-painters. The Countess of Bedford, 
at Petworth, his Snyders at Castle Howard, his whole 
lengths at Warwick and at Windsor, the noble equestrian 
picture at Blenheim, of Charles I., with its magnificent 
landscape background, and the whole length of Charles in 
the Louvre, are among the masterpieces of Vandyke ; but 
he has nowhere shown such dramatic powers as are dis- 
played by Velasquez, in his portrait picture of " The Sur- 
render of Breda." 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 163 

The Governor of the town is presenting its keys to the 
Marquis Spinola, who (hat in hand) neither takes them, 
nor allows his late antagonist to kneel. But, lajdng his 
hand gently on his shoulder, he seems to say, " Fortune has 
favored me, but our cases might have been reversed." To 
paint such an act of generous courtesy was worthy of a 
contemporary of Cervantes. It is not, however, in the 
choice of the subject, but in the manner in which he has 
brought the scene before our eyes, that the genius and mind 
of Velasquez are shown. The cordial, unaiFected bearing 
of the conqueror could only have been represented by as 
thorough a gentleman as himself. I know this picture but 
from copies. Mr. Ford says of the original, " Never were 
knights, soldiers, or national character better painted, or 
the heavy Fleming, the intellectual Italian, and the proud 
Spaniard more nicely marked, even to their boots and 
breeches ; the lances of the guards actually vibrate. Ob- 
serve the contrast of the light-blue, delicate page, with the 
dark, iron-clad General, Spinola, who, the model of a high- 
bred, generous warrior, is consoling a gallant but vanquished 
enemy." 

Another great portrait picture, the conception of which 
is equally dramatic and original, is at Windsor Castle. The 
Archduke Ferdinand of Austria and the Prince of Spain, 
mounted on chargers, are directing an assault in the battle 
of Nortlingen. The conventional manner, sanctioned in- 
deed by great painters, of representing commanders of 
armies, whether mounted or on foot, quietly looking out of 
the picture, while the battle iiages behind them, is here set 
aside. The generals are riding into the scene of action ; 
and yet their attitudes are so contrived as sufficiently to 
show their features. Nearer to the spectator are half- 
length figures, the end of a long line of steel-clad infantry, 
diminishing in perspective up a hill to the fortress they ai-e 
storming. All is action ; and though we are only shown 



164 CHAELES EOBEET LESLIE. 

tlie generals and the common soldiers, yet, as tlie horses 
of the former are in profile, and have just come into the 
picture, we may imagine a train of attendant officers about 
to appear ; and though portrait was the first object of 
Rubens, the picture is a noble representation of a battle. 
The conception, as regards the foot-soldiers, has been im- 
itated, though differently applied, by Opie ; and probably 
Raphael's composition in the Vatican, representing David 
gazing at Bathsheba, while the troops of Uriah pass below 
him, suggested it to Rubens. 

The pendant to this picture is the group of Sir Balthasar 
Gerbier, his wife, and children ; which Dr. Waagen inclines 
to attribute to Vandyke. But the arrangement and dra- 
matic connection of the figures is entirely free from the 
formality of Vandyke ; and a comparison of this fine com- 
position with Vandyke's " Children of Charles I." at 
Windsor, his " Pembroke Family " at Wilton, his " Earl 
and Countess of Derby" belonging to Lord Clarendon, 
or " The Nassau Family " at Penshanger, will show that 
it is by Rubens. 

Perhaps the noblest group of portraits ever painted, for 
it is considered the greatest work of its class by Titian, is 
that of the male part of the family of Luigi Cornaro. The 
fine old man," whose life by an extraordinary system of 
temperance was protracted to a hundred years, kneels be- 
fore an altar in the open air, followed by his son-in-law 
and grandchildren, except the three youngest, who are 
sitting on the steps of the altar playing with a little dog, 
an incident like some I have noticed in the works of Ra- 
phael. The characteristic arrangement of the figures, the 
noble simplicity of the lines, and the truth and power of 
the color, unite in placing this picture on the summit of 
Art. There is no apparent sacrifice of detail, no trick, that 
we can discover, to give supremacy to the heads, which 
yet rivet our attention at the first glance, and to which we 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. , 165 

return again and again, impressed by the thought and mind 
in the countenances of the elder personages, and charmed 
with the youthful innocence of the boys. I have seen peo- 
ple, ignorant of the principles of Art, and caring little about 
pictures, stand before this one in astonishment, and I have 
heard them express themselves in a way which proved that 
little of its excellence was lost on them. Fortunately for Eng- 
land, it belongs to his Grace the Duke of Northumberland. 

There was a time when kmgs, warriors, and other em- 
inent persons were painted, almost as a matter of course, 
in devotional attitudes. It was, in fact, a fashion, and was 
continued to a later date than the close of Titian's life. But 
is not so much what the individual painted may be doing, 
as its consistency with his whole life, and the look and man- 
ner given him by the painter, which interests or offends us. 
The piety of a kneeling hero may be ostentatious ; or we 
might happen to know that devotion was all the religion he 
practised, and that he was lifting to Heaven hands that had 
been steeped, and were again to be steeped, in innocent 
blood. Sir Thomas More was several times painted by 
Holbein, yet never, that I recollect, in an attitude of devo- 
tion, or accompanied by any symbol of that religion which 
was the rule of his life ; and what would the memory of 
More, or the genius of Holbein, have gained had he so 
painted him ? Raphael flattered Leo the Tenth, as he was 
directed, by introducing him, in the "Attila," as Leo the 
First. But when he was to paint a more characteristic 
j^ortrait of the Pope, he represented only the sovereign and 
the dilettante. Leo is examining with a glass a splendidly- 
illuminated manuscript. He sits in a chair of state, at- 
tended, not by saints, but by two princes of the church; 
and the portrait is, as all portraits should be, biographical. 
Even in copies (from which only I know it), I fancy I see 
faint indications of a love of fun, so characteristic of a 
Pontiff who delighted in a practical joke. 



166 CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE. 

The admirers of devotional portrait object to the more 
modern custom of indicating the deeds of the person repre- 
sented, as savoring of vanity ; forgetting that acts of devo- 
tion are deeds, and, as far as attitude and expression have 
to do with devotion, the easiest of all deeds; and when 
consisting in these alone, the most criminal of all vanities. 
The only portrait of that admirable woman Margaret Tu- 
dor, represents her in a religious habit, with her hands 
joined in prayer, and she could not have been so charac- 
teristically handed down to us in any other dress or attitude. 
Neither could Sir Joshua's portrait of General Eliott be 
more happily conceived than it is. The key of the fortress 
he is defending is held firmly in his hand. But commanding 
as are the air and attitude, they have nothing of the vanity 
of bravado ; indeed, if what is most honorable to the man 
should not be painted, the world would not have possessed 
the noble conception of Yelasquez that has been described. 

What may be called masquerading or fancy-ball portrait 
is seldom happy; and though we do not object to Sir 
Joshua's "Kitty Fisher as Cleopatra," or "Emily Bertie 
as Thais," yet, as in such cases, let us be sure the assumed 
"character accords with the real one. Sir Thomas Lawrence 
made a sketch of George the Fourth in the armor of the 
Black Prince, but had the good sense not to carry the 
matter further than a sketch. 

Are portrait-painters, it may be asked, to paint the vices 
of their sitters ? Assuredly, if these vices exhibit them- 
selves in the countenance. And Fuseli praises Titian for 
expressing some of the most odious individual characteristics, 
in portraits that he selects as works of the highest order. 

Allan Cunningham accuses Reynolds of flattery, and. I 
apprehend Sir Joshua was just as much of a flatterer as 
Titian. With a vulgar head before him, he would not, or 
rather could not, make a vulgar picture. But I do not 
believe that he would have given to Colonel Charteris " an 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 167 

aspect worthy a President of the Society for the Suppression 
of Vice," unless, which is not impossible, he had such an 
aspect. In his whole length of the Duke of Orleans, the 
debauchee was as apparent as the Prince. 

No man can be a good portrait-painter who is not a 
good physiognomist. I do not mean that he should know 
Lavater by heart, or that he must believe in all that phre- 
nology assumes. But he must be, what all of us are, in 
some degree, a judge of character by the signs exhibited 
in the face. A few of the broad distinctions of physiognomy 
depend on the forms of the features, but all its nicer shades 
have far more to do with expression ; and in this, indeed, 
the real character is often seen where the conformation of 
the features seems to contradict it. Socrates had the face 
and figure of a Silenus, but the great mind of the phi- 
losopher must have been visible, through the disguise, to 
all who could read expression. There are some general 
and well-known rules for the determination of physiognom- 
ical character, as far as it has to do with the shapes of the 
features ; the aquiline nose and eye, for instance, belong to 
the heroic class, thick lips to the sensual, and thin to the 
selfish; yet all these may be liable to many exceptions; 
the first certainly are; for Nelson, Wolfe, Turenne, and 
many other heroes, will occm' to our recollection -who had 
nothmg of the eagle physiognomy. It is natm-al to asso- 
ciate beauty with goodness, and ugliness with wickedness ; 
and children generally do this. But an acquaintance with 
the world soon shows us that bad and selfish hearts may 
be concealed under the handsomest features, and the highest 
virtues hidden under the homeliest ; and that goodness may 
even consist with conformations of face absolutely ugly. 
We then begin to look for the character in the expression 
rather than in the forms of the features, and to distinguish 
assumed expressions from natural ones ; and so we go on, 
and, as we grow older, become better physiognomists, though 



168 CHARLES EGBERT LESLIE. 

we never arrive at tliat certainty of judgment which seems 
not to be intended we ever should. 

The best portrait-painters, though they may not have 
penetrated through the mask to all beneath it, have, by the 
fidelity of their Art, given resemblances that sometimes 
correct and sometimes confirm the verdicts of historians. 
"VVlio can look at Vandyke's three heads, painted to enable 
Bernini to make a bust, and believe all that has been said 
against Charles I.? Or Avho can look at Holbein's por- 
traits of Henry YIII., and doubt the worst that has been 
said of his selfish cruelty ? 

Among the many excellences of Holbein, his treatment 
of the hands is not the least ; and it is evident that in his 
whole-lengths of Henry, they are portraits, and so are the 
legs, and that the king stood for the entire figure in that 
characteristic, but by no means graceful attitude, in which 
he set the fashion to his courtiers. We feel that we could 
swear to the truth, the whole ti'uth, and nothing but the 
truth, of such portraits. 

Among the pictures at Hampton Court attributed to 
Holbein, few can be relied on as genuine. I cannot be- 
lieve that those historical curiosities, " The Embai'kation of 
Hemy VIII. from Dover," " The Field of the Cloth of 
Gold," '' The Meeting of Hemy and Maximilian," or " The 
Battle of the Spurs," are his works; neither. do I believe 
he painted the picture that includes Henry, Jane Seymour, 
Prince Edward, Mary, and Ehzabeth, nor the life-sized 
whole-length of "The Earl of Surry." According to the 
general custom of attributing the portraits of every age 
to the greatest master of that age, Holbein is made answer- 
able for these, and many others, greatly inferior to the 
picture, certainly by him, belonging to the Surgeon Barbers' 
Company ; a work rivalling Titian in its color, and in the 
finely-marked individual character of the heads. It is 
remai'kable that, although it has hung in the very heart of 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 169 

London for more than three hundred year.?, it has not in 
the least suffered from smoke ; and if it has ever been 
cleaned, it has sustained no injury from the process. Dr. 
Waagen urges the importance of so fine a picture beinf 
removed to the National Gallery, and tliinks an arrange- 
ment might be made to that purpose, between the Govern- 
ment and the company that possesses it ; "a consummation 
devoutly to be wished." There is not a Holbein in the 
National Gallery. 

While speaking of this great painter, I must not omit 
to notice the interest given to his picture of the family of 
Sir Thomas More, by making the background an exact 
representation of an apartment in More's house. This 
examjDle might effect a great improvement in portrait, and 
it would often be found easier to the painter (as well as 
far more agreeable) to copy realities, than to weary him- 
self with ineffectual attempts to make the eternal pillar 
and curtain, or the conventional sky and tree, look as well 
as they do in the backgrounds of RejTiolds and Gains- 
borough. 

The question relating to the degree in which personal 
defects are to be marked must, in every case, be settled 
by the taste of the painter. Rejaiolds has not only shown 
that Baretti was near-sighted, but he has made that defect 
as much the subject of the picture as the sitter himself, 
and Baretti's absorption in his book strongly marks the 
literary man. But near-sightedness is not a deformity, 
and there can be no doubt that Reynolds abated whatever 
of malformation he might not for the sake of individuality 
think it right to exclude, and that he also invariably softened 
harshness of feature or expression, and diminished positive 
ugliness, as far as he could do so ^vithout losing character. 
Chantrey did the same ; but Lawrence softened hai'shness 
so much as often to lose character. The portraits of neither 
of the three could ever be called ridiculously like, an ex- 



170 CHAELES ROBERT LESLIE. 

pression sometimes used in tlie way of compliment, but in 
reality pointing exactly to what a portrait should not be ; 
and Wilkie felt this so much that he went to the other 
extreme, and even deviated into unlikeness in his portraits, 
from the dread of that un-ideal mode of representation which 
excites us to laugh. 

We, undervalue that wliich costs us least effort, and West, 
wliile engaged on a small picture of his own family, little 
thought how much it would surpass in interest many of 
his more ambitious works. Its subject is the first visit 
of Ms father and elder brother to his young wife, after 
the birth of her second child. They are Quakers ; and the 
venerable old man and his eldest son wear their hats, 
according to the custom of their sect. Nothing can be 
more beautifully conceived than the mother bending over 
the babe, sleeping in her lap. She is wrapped in a white 
dressing-gown, and her other son, a boy of six years old, 
is leaning on the arm of her chair. West stands behind 
his father, with his palette and brushes in his hand, and the 
silence that reigns over the whole is that of religious medi- 
tation, which will probably end, according to the Quaker 
custom, in a prayer from the patriarch of the family. The 
picture is a very small one, the engraving from it being 
of the same size. It has no excellence of color, but the 
masses of light and shadow are impressive and simple, and 
I know not a more original illustration of the often-painted 
subject, the ages of man. Infancy, childhood, youth, middle 
life, and extreme age, are beautifully brought together in 
the quiet chamber of the painter's wife. Had he been 
employed to paint these five ages, he would perhaps have 
given himself a great deal of trouble to produce a work 
that would have been classical, but, compared with this, 
commonplace ; while he has here succeeded in making 
a picture which, being intended only for himself, is for that 
reason a picture for the whole world ; and if painters could 



THE GEEAT PORTRAIT-PAD^TERS. 171 

always thus put their hearts into their work, how much 
would the general interest of the Art be increased ! 

Among the many great lessons in portrait composition, 
by Rembrandt, are '' The Night Watch," at Amsterdam, 
" The Group of Sm-geons assembled round a Corpse," in 
the Musee at the Hague, and the picture wliich Mr. Smith, 
in his " Catalogue Raisonne," calls " Ranier Hanslo and his 
Mother." A sight of the two fii'st is well w^orth a journey 
to Holland. The last is sometimes described as " a woman 
consulting a- Baptist minister," and at others, " a woman 
consultmg an eminent lawyer, or an eminent physician." 
As there are large books on a table and in the background, 
and the expressions of the heads are earnest and serious, 
the subject might be either of these. I saw the picture 
(which belongs to the Earl of Ashburnham) many years 
ago, and have ever since been haunted with the wish to 
see it again. Indeed, I was about to make a day's journey 
for that sole purpose, when it was sent to London for sale. 
The persons it represents are unknown, the heads of neither 
are remarkable for beauty, or any other interest than that 
marked individuality that carries with it a certainty of 
likeness ; and yet it is a picture that throws down every 
barrier that would exclude it from the highest class of Art ; 
nor do I know anything from the hand of Rembrandt in 
which he appears greater than in this simple and unpre- 
tending w^ork. I remember being surprised to hear Sir 
Thomas Lawrence object to its treatment, that though the 
man turns towards the woman, and is spealdng earnestly, 
while she is listening with great attention, yet they do not 
look in each other's faces. I was surprised that he should 
not have noticed how frequently this happens, in conversa- 
tions on the mosif important subjects, and oftenest, indeed, 
in such coTiversations. Rembrandt has repeated these at- 
titudes and expressions, in the two principal personages in 
"The Mght Watch," with the difference only, that the, 



172 CHARLES EGBERT LESLIE. 

figures are walking as tliey converse. There Is an engrav- 
ing of tlie " Hanslo and his Mother " by Josiah Boydell, 
which, however, fails in giving the breadth of light on the 
female head, the color of which is as near to perfection as 
Art ever approached. 

The hands in Eembrandt's portraits, as in those of Hol- 
bein, do everything required of them in the most natural 
and expressive way. But very different are the hands 
of Vandyke, which have an affected grace, adopted from 
Rubens, though carried further from Nature, and which may 
be traced from Rubens to Coreggio. The hands in Van- 
dyke's portraits are always of one type, thin and elegant, 
with long, tapered fingers. He was followed in these par- 
ticulars by Lely with still more of affectation, who carried 
a corresponding mannerism into his faces, losing nearly all 
individuality in that one style of beauty that was in fashion. 

A nobleman said to Lely, " How is it that you have so 
great a reputation, when you know, as well as I do, that 
you are no painter ? " " True, but I am the best you have," 
was the answer. And so it is ; the best artist of the age 
will generally, while living, have a reputation equal to the 
greatest that have preceded him. Lely, however, was a 
painter, and of very great merit. His color, always pearly 
and refined, is often very charming. He understood well 
the treatment of landscape as background, and there are 
some of his pictures which I prefer to some pictures by 
Vandyke. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds remarks that in general the greatest 
portrait-painters have not copied closely the dresses of their 
time. Holbein, however, took no liberties with the doublets, 
hose, or mantles of the gentlemen he painted, nor with the 
head-gear or kirtles of the ladies ; neither did Velasquez ; 
and their portraits are, therefore, curious records of fashions, 
picturesque, and sometimes fantastic in the extreme, yet 
always treated with admirable Art ; and I confess I prefej' 



THE GREAT PORTK AIT-PAINTERS. 173 

those of Sir Joshua's portraits in which he has faithfully 
adhered to the dress of the sitter ; which is always char- 
acteristic, and often highly so. The manner in which 
Queen Elizabeth covered herself with jewels, and the 
splendor with which Raleigh decorated his person, pertain 
to biography. 

In some of Vandyke's portraits, no change is made in 
the dress, while in many (I believe the most), that which 
is stiff and formal is loosened, and alterations are introduced 
that we are only aware of when we compare Ms pictures 
with exact representations, by other artists, of the costume 
of the time. Such deviations from matter of fact were 
carried much further by Lely and Kneller, particularly in 
their portraits of ladies ; and the first adopted an elegant, 
but impossible, undress, that assists the voluptuous expres- 
sion which he aimed at, either to please a dissolute Court, 
or because it pleased himself; possibly for both reasons. 

With Kneller, however, the ideal style of the dress does 
not affect the prevailing character he gave to the beauties 
he painted, who seem a higher order of beings than the 
ladies of Lely. Among the attractions of the latter the ex- 
pression of strict virtue is by no means conspicuous, while it 
would seem profane to doubt the purity of the high-born 
dames of Kneller. Though, as a painter, not to be com- 
pared to Lely, his women seem secured from moral degra- 
dation by an ever-present consciousness of noble birth, which 
sits well on them ; and though their demeanor is as studied 
as the grace of a minuet, it does not offend like vulgar 
affectation. Fielding, the natural Fielding, greatly ad- 
mired the stately beauties of Kneller, at Hampton Court, 
and compared Sopliia Western to one of them. Conscious 
that, " when unadorned, adorned the most," they reject the 
aid of jewellery, and are content with only so much assist- 
ance from Art as they receive from well-arranged draperies. 

The great fault of Lely is the family likeness, closer than 



174 CHAELES EGBERT LESLIE. 

that of sisters, wliich forbids our relying on his pictures 
as portraits ; and tliis unpardonable fault is carried even 
further hj Kneller, whose ladies are all cast in one mould 
of feature and form, and all alike tall to a degree rare in 
nature. 

Eejnolds adopted something from both which he used 
to advantage; but he did far more, — he recovered por- 
trait from all the mannerism that had accumulated on it, 
from the death of Vandyke to his own time, and restored 
it to truth. 

When we compare his style with that of his master, 
Hudson, we are struck with its vast superiority, its wide 
difference, not merely in degree, but in kind ; and in this 
it would appear to form an exception to what has generally 
been the case, namely, that the style of every extraordinary 
genius is but a great improvement on that of the school in 
which he was reared. But it was not from Hudson, nor 
from his visit to Italy, that the Art of Reynolds was formed. 
The seed that was to produce fruit, so excellent and abun- 
dant, was so^\Ti before he quitted Devonshire. He there 
saw, and probably among the first pictures he ever saw, 
the works of a painter wholly unknown in the metropolis. 
" This painter," Northcote tells us, " was William Gandy, of 
Exeter, whom," he says, " I cannot but consider as an early 
master of Eeynolds. He told me himself that he had seen 
portraits by Gandy equal to those of Rembrandt ; one in 
particular of an alderman of Exeter, which is placed in a 
public building in that city. I have also heard him repeat 
some observations of Gaudy's which had been mentioned 
to him, and that he approved of; one, in particular was, 
that a picture ought to have a richness in its texture, as 
if the colors had been composed of cream or cheese, and the 
reverse of a hard and husky or dry manner." Now a 
single precept like this, falling into an ear fitted to receive 
it, is sufficient to create a style ; wliile, upon the inapt, all 
the best instruction that can be given is wasted. 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 175 

I have seen a portrait by Gancly, which I should have 
mistaken for an early work of Reynolds ; and this, wdth 
what Northcote tells us, is enough to establish, in my mind, 
Gandy's claim to the honor. of being the first instructor of 
a great genius whom he never saw. Gandy's father was a 
pupil of Vandyke ; and being patronized by the Duke of 
Ormond, and retained in liis service in Ireland, his works 
were as little known in London as those of his son, who 
practised only in Devonshire. Thus, wliile the style of 
Vandyke degenerated through the hands of his successors 
in the Capital, till it was totally lost in the beginning of 
the eighteenth century, some of its best qualities were pre- 
served in remote j)arts of the kingdom, to lead to a splendid 
revival of portraiture ; so true it is that, however obscured 
from sight, at times, some of the links in the chain of Art 
may be, still it is a chain never wholly broken. 

Nothing can be further from my intention than to lessen 
the fame of Reynolds. What I have stated merely shows 
what indeed we might be certain of without a knowledge of 
the facts, namely, that the birth of his Art was not miracu- 
lous. Praise enough is still left for him ; for that which he 
derived from Gandy was but the medium of his own fasci- 
nating conceptions of Nature. " There is a charm," says 
Northcote, "in his portraits, a mingled softness and force, 
a grasping at the end, with nothing harsh or unpleasant in 
the means, that you will find nowhere else. He may go 
out of fasliion for a time, but you must come back to him 
again, while a thousand imitators and academic triflers are 
forgotten." 

In looking over prints from his works, we are astonished 
at the many attitudes and incidents we find new to Aii:, 
and yet often such as from their very familiarity in life 
have been overloked by other painters. The three Ladies 
Wialdegrave, one winding silk Jfrom the hands of another, 
while the third is bending over a drawing, Mrs. Abington 



176 CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE. 

leaning on the back of her chair, and Lady Fenoulhet with 
her hands in a muff, for instance ; and then the many ex- 
quisitely natural groupings of mothers and children, and of 
children with children ; how greatly superior in interest are 
such conceptions, fresh from Nature, to some of his inven- 
tions, — as of ladies sacrificing to the Graces, or decorating 
a statue of Hymen, of which indeed he made fine pictures 
(for that he could not help), but pictures the impression of 
which is comparatively languid. 

In the collected works of no other portrait-painter do we 
find so great a diversity of individual character illustrated 
by so great a variety of natural incident, or aided by such 
various and well-chosen effects of light and shadow ; many 
entirely new to Art, as, for instance, the partial shadows 
thrown by branches of trees over whole-length figures. In- 
deed, by no other painter, except Gainsborough, has land- 
scape been so beautifully or effectively brought in aid of 
portrait. Yandyke generally subdues its brightness to give 
supremacy to the head, and Lely and Kneller did this still 
more ; but Reynolds, without lessening its power, always 
contrived it so as to relieve the face most effectively. 

We may learn nearly everything relating to portrait from 
Reynolds. Those deviations from the exact correspondence 
of the sides of the face which are so common in Nature 
are never corrected by him, as they sometimes are by in- 
ferior artists under the notion of improving the drawing. 
He felt that a marked difference in the lines surrounding 
the eyes often -greatly aids the expression of the face. He 
took advantage of this in painting the fixed despair of 
Ugolino, no doubt finding it in the model ; and in a very 
different head, his front face of Garrick, he has, by observing 
the difference of the eyes, given great archness of expres- 
sion, and assisted its intelhgence without making the face 
less handsome. 

It has been said, and I believe it, that no painter can 



THE GREAT PORTE AIT-PAINTERS. 177 

put more sense into a head tlian lie possesses himself, and 
it must have been rare for Reynolds to meet with an in 
tellect superior to his own. Had we no other evidence, that 
of Goldsmith, who knew him well, was a close observer, and 
no flatterer, would be conclusive : — 

" Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind." 

But his portraits were not always so satisfactory to his 
sitters as the works of inferior painters. The truth is, 
sitters are no judges of their own likenesses, and in their 
immediate family circle the best judges are not always to 
be found. Lord Thurlow said, "There are two factions, 
the Reynolds faction and the Romney faction. I am of 
the Romney faction." Now in Romney's whole-length the 
Chancellor appeared a more handsome man than in the 
half-length of Reynolds. Romney avoided all indication 
of the suppressed temper that was so apt to explode in 
\aolent paroxysms, and this rendered his picture more ac- 
ceptable to the original. But he missed what Reynolds 
alone could give, — that extraordinary sapience wliich made 
Charles Fox say, " No man could be so wise as Lord Thur- 
low looked." 

That the portraits of Reynolds were the best of all like- 
nesses, I have no manner of doubt. I know several of his 
pictures of children, the originals of whom I have seen in 
middle and old age, and in every instance I could discover 
much likeness. He painted Lord Melbourne when a boy, 
and with that genuine laugh that was so characteristic of 
the future Prime Minister at every period of his life ; and 
no likeness between a child and a man of sixty (an age at 
which I remember Lord Melbourne) was ever more strik- 
ing. Lord Melbourne recollected that Sir Joshua bribed 
him to sit, by giving him a ride on his foot, and said, " If 
you behave well, you shall have another ride." 
12 



178 CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE. 

His fondness of cliildren is recorded on all liis canvases 
in -wliicli they appear. A matchless picture of Miss Bowls, 
a beautiful laughing cliild caressing a dog, was sold a few 
years ago at auction, and cheaply, at a thousand guineas. 
The father and mother of the little girl intended she should 
sit to Romney, who at one time more than divided the 
town with Reynolds. Sii' George Beaumont, however, 
advised them to employ Sir Joshua. " But liis pictures 
fade." "No matter, take the chance; even a faded pic- 
ture by Re}Tiolds will be the finest thing you can have. 
Ask him to dine with you ; and let him become acquainted 
with her." The ad^dce was taken ; the little girl was placed 
beside Sir Joshua at the table, where he amused her so 
much with tricks and stories that she thought him the 
most charming man in the world, and the next day was 
delighted to be taken to his house, where she sat down with 
a face full of glee, the expression of which he caught at 
once and never lost ; and the affair turned out every way 
happily, for the picture did not fade, and has till noAV 
escaped alike the inflictions of time or of the ignorant 
ajnong cleaners. 

Doubts have been expressed of the sincerity of Sir 
Joshua's great admiration of IMichael Aiigelo. Had he, 
on his return from Italy, undertaken to decorate a church 
(supposing an opportunity) with imitations of the Sis tine 
ceiluig, I should doubt his appreciation of the great works 
that cover it-. But a painter may sincerely admire Ai-t 
very different from his own; and I rest my belief of his 
full appreciation of IVIichael Angelo less on his " Tragic 
Muse " (JSlis. Siddons) or his " Ugolino," both of which we 
may in some degree trace among the conceptions in the 
Sistine Chapel, than to that general greatness and grace 
of style stamped on all his works. " Reynolds," says 
Sterne, " great and graceful as he paints " ; nor could his 
Art be so well characterized by any other two words. 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 179 

It has buen more than once Intlmatecl that Reynolds 
cared for no other artist's success. But if this were the 
case, why did he take the trouble to write and deliver liis 
discourses? in which he did not fail to give all the in- 
struction he could convey, by words, in his o-^ti branch of 
the Art, as well as in those which he considered higher. 
He was daily accessible to all young artists who sought his 
advice, and readily lent them the finest of his own works ; 
but in doing this he always said to the portrait-painter, " It 
will be better for you to study Vandyke." It is clear, that, 
though he felt his own superiority among hi* contemporaries, 
he had a belief that British Art was advancing, and that 
he should be surpassed by future painters ; like the belief 
in which Shakespeare supposes an ideal mistress to say of 
himself, — 

" But since he died, and poets better prove," 

for Reynolds, like all men of the loftiest minds, was modest. 
Mrs. Bray, in her " Life of Stothard," says, mth great truth, 
of the modesty of such men, that it " is not at all inconsistent 
with that strong internal conviction, which every man of real 
merit possesses, respecting his own order of capacity. He 
feels that Nature has given Mm a stand on higher ground 
than most of his contemporaries ; but he does not look down 
on them, but above himself. Wliat he does is great, but he 
still feels that greatness has a spirit which is ever mount- 
ing, — that rests on no summit within mortal view, but 
soars again and again in search of an ideal height on wliich 
to pause and fold its wings." 

Gainsborough was the most formidable rival of Reynolds. 
Whether he felt it hopeless to make use of Sir Joshua's 
weapons, or whether his peculiar taste led him to tlie 
choice of other means ; he adopted a system of cliiaro- 
scuro, of more frequent occurrence in Nature than those 
extremes of light and dark which Reynolds managed with 



180 CHARLES EOBERT L1.SLIE. 

such consummate judgment. His range in portrait was 
more limited, but within that range he is at times so de- 
lightful that we should not feel inclined to exchange a head 
by him for a head of the same person by Sir Joshua. His 
men are as thoroughly gentlemen, and his women as en- 
tirely ladies, nor had Eeynolds a truer feeling of the charms 
of infancy. Indeed his cottage children are more interest- 
ing because more natural than the " Robinettas " and " Mus- 
cipulas " of his illustrious rival, the only class of pictures 
by Eeynolds in which mannerism in expression and attitude 
obtrudes itself ill the place of what is natural. Gains- 
borough's barefoot child on her way to the well, with her 
little dog under her arm, is unequalled by anything of the 
Icind in the world. I recollect it at the British Gallery, 
forming part of a very noble assemblage of pictures, and 
I could scarcely look at or think of anything else in the 
rooms. This inimitable work is a portrait, and not of a 
peasant child, but of a young lady, who appears also in his 
picture of the girl and pigs, which Sir Joshua purchased. 

That Reynolds and Gainsborough were not on terms of 
friendship seems to have been the fault of the latter, who, 
with all his excellent quaUties, had not so equable a temper 
as Sir Joshua. Reynolds did not, as Allan Cunningham 
intimates, wait till the death of Gainsborough to do justice 
to his genius. The brief allusion to their last interview in 
his fourteenth discourse, wliich is as modest as it is touching, 
proves that he had not done so ; and it seems clear that Sir 
Joshua would- have told much more, had it not been to his 
own honor, and that he has only said what he felt necessary 
for the removal of any charge of injustice on his part. 

The powers of Gainsborough, in portrait, may be well 
estimated by that charming picture in the Dulwich Gallery, 
of "Mrs. Sheridan and Mrs. Tickell"; and the whole- 
lengths at Hampton Court, of " Colonel St. Leger," and 
" Fisher the Composer." 



THE GREAT POKTRAIT-PAINTEES. 181 

A painter may have great ability, and yet be inferior to 
those of whom I have spoken. Sir Thomas Lawrence was 
perhaps hindered from rising to the highest rank as a 
colorist by his early and first practice of making portraits 
in colorless chalk only. His wish to please the sitter made 
him yield more than his English predecessors had done to 
the foolish desire of most people to be painted with a smile : 
though he was far from extending this indulgence to that 
extreme of a self-satisfied simper that the French painters 
of the age preceding his had introduced to portrait. Of 
indefatigable industry, Lawrence's habit of undertaking too 
many pictures at the same time was a serious drawback, 
in many cases, to their excellence. He began the portraits 
of childi-en which he did not finish till they were grown up, 
and of gentlemen and ladies while their hair was of its first 
color, but which remained incomplete in liis rooms till the 
originals were gray. The most beautiful of his female 
heads, and beautiful it is, is the one he painted of Lady 
Elizabeth Leveson Gower (afterwards Marchioness of West- 
minster). This was begun and finished off-hand; and so 
was the best male head he ever painted, his first portrait of 
Mr. West, not the whole-length in the National Gallery, in 
which he has much exaggerated the stature of the original. 
He took especial delight in painting the venerable and ami- 
able President, who offered a remarkable instance of what 
I have described elsewhere, the increase of beauty in old 
age, and of whom this portrait is a work of great excel- 
lence. 

Without any of those peculiar blandishments of manner, 
either as a painter or a man, that contributed to make 
Lawrence the most popular portrait-painter of his time, 
Jackson was more of an artist, much truer in color, and, 
indeed, in this respect approaching to Eeynolds, whose 
pictui'es he sometimes copied so closely as to deceive even 
Northcote. When his sitters were ordinary people, his 



182 CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE. 

portraits were often ordinary works ; but wlien tliey were 
notable persons, he exerted all his powers. The portrait he 
painted of Canova, for Chantrey, is in all respects superior 
to that which Lawrence painted of the great sculjDtor ; 
more natural, more manly, and much finer in effect. His 
heads of Sir John Franklin (painted for Mr. Murray), of 
Flaxman, of Stothard, and of Liston, are all admirably 
characteristic, and among the finest portraits of the British 
school ; and I remember seeing at Castle Howard his half- 
length of Northcote, hanging in company with Vandyke's 
half-length of Snyders, and a magnificent head of a Jew 
Rabbi by Rembrandt, and well sustaining so trying a 
position. Perfectly amiable in his nature, nothing pleased 
Jackson more than opportunities of recommending yomig 
painters of merit to patronage ; and he introduced Wilkie 
and Haydon to Lord Mulgrave and Sir George Beau- 
mont. With strong natural sense, playful in liis manner, 
and with a true rehsh of humor, Jackson was a great 
favorite with all who had the happiness to know him, and 
his loss, by an early death, was irreparable to his friends, 
and a very great one to Art. 

The many advantages in many ways resulting from 
Photography are yet but imperfectly appreciated; for its 
improvements have followed each other so rapidly, that we 
cannot but expect many more, and are quite in the dark 
as to what may be its next wonder. In. its present state it 
confii-ms what has always been felt by the best artists and the 
best critics, that fac-simile is not that species of resemblance 
to Nature, even in a portrait, that is most agreeable: for 
while the best calotypes remind us of mezzotint engravings 
from Velasquez, Rembrandt, or Reynolds, they are still 
inferior in general effect to such engravings : and they thus 
help to show that the ideal is equally a principle of por- 
trait-painting as of all other Art: and that not only does 
this consist in the best view of the face, the best light and 



THE GREAT PORTRAIT-PAINTERS. 183 

shadow, and the most characteristic attitude of the figure, 
for all these may be selected for a photograpliic picture, 
but that the ideal of a portrait, like the ideal of all Art, 
depends on something which can only be communicated by 
the mind, through the hand and eye, and without any other 
mechanical intervention than that of the pencil. Photog- 
raphy may tend to relax the industry of inferior painters, 
but it may be hoped and reasonably expected that it will 
stimulate the exertions of the best ; for much may be learnt 
from it if used as a means of becoming better acquainted 
with the beauties of Nature, but nothing if resorted to only 
as a substitute for labor. 



TO AGE. 

By WALTER SAVAGE LANDOK. 

WELCOME, old friend ! These many years 
Have we lived door by door ; 
The Fates have laid aside theu' sliears 
Perhaps for some few more. 

I was indocile at an age 

Wlien better boys were taught, 
But thou at length hast made me sage, 

If I am sage in aught. 

Little I know from other men, 

Too little they from me, 
But thou hast pointed well the pen 

That writes these lines to thee. 

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 

One vile, the other vain ; 
One's scourge, the other's telescope, 

I shall not see again ; 

Eather what lies before my feet 

My notice shall engage : 
He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 

Dreads not the frost of Age. 



THE YOUTH OE MAN 



By MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



WE, Nature, depart : 
Thou survivest us : tliis, 
Tliis, I know, is the law. 
Yes, but more than this, 
Thou who seest us die 
Seest us change while we live ; 
Seest our dreams one by one, 
Seest our errors depart : 

Watchest us. Nature, throughout, 
Mild and inscrutably calm. 

"Well for us that we change ! 
Well for us that the Power 
Which in our morning prime 
Saw the mistakes of our youth, 
Sweet and forgiving and good. 
Sees the contrition of age ! 

Behold, O Nature, this pair ! 
See them to-night where they stand. 
Not with the halo of youth 
Crowning their brows with its light. 
Not with the sunshine of hope, 
Not with the rapture of spring, 



186 MATTHEW AENOLD. 

Whicli they had of old, when they stood 

Years ago at my side 

111 this selfsame garden, and said : 

" "We are young, and the world is ours, 

For man is the king of the world. 

Fools that these mystics are 

Who prate of Nature ! but she 

Has neither beauty, nor warmth, 

Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. 

But Man has a thousand gifts. 

And the generous dreamer invests 

The senseless world with them all. 

Nature is nothing ! her charm 
Lives in our eyes which can paint. 
Lives in our hearts which can feel ! " 

Thou, O Nature, wert mute, — 
Mute as of old : days flew. 
Days and years ; and Time 
With the ceaseless stroke of his wings 
Brushed off the bloom from their soul. 
Clouded and dim grew their eye ; 
Languid their heart ; for Youth 
Quickened its pulses no more. 
Slowly within the walls 
Of an ever-narrowing world 
They drooped, they grew blind, they grew old. 
Thee and their Youth in thee. 
Nature, they saw no more. 

Murmur of living ! 
Stir of existence ! 
Soul of the work ' 
Make, make yourselves felt 
To the dying spirit of Youth. 



THE YOUTH OF MAN. 187 

Come, like the breatli of spring. 

Leave not a liuman soul 

To grow old in darkness and pain. 

Only the living can feel you : 
But leave us not while we live. 

Here they stand to-night, — 
Here, where tliis gray balustrade 
Crowns the still valley : behind 
Is the castled house with its woods 
Which sheltered their cliildhood, the sun 
On its ivied windows : a scent 
From the gray-walled gardens, a breatli 
Of the fragrant stock and the pink, 
Perfumes the evening air. 
Their cliildren play on the lawns. 
They stand and listen : they hear 
The children's shouts, and, at times, 
Faintly, the bark of a dog 
From a distant farm in the hills : — 
Nothing besides : in front 
The wide, wide valley outspreads 
To the dim horizon, reposed 
Li the twihght, and bathed in dew, 

Cornfield and hamlet and copse 
Darkening fast ; but a light. 
Far off, a glory of day. 
Still plays on the city spires : 
And there in the dusk by the walls. 
With the gray mist marking its course 
Through the silent flowery land, 

On, to the plains, to the sea. 
Floats the Imperial Stream. 

Well I know what they feel. 
They gaze, and the evening wind 



188 MATTHEW AENOLD. 

Plays on their faces : tliej gaze ; 
Airs from the Eden of Youth 
Awake and stir in their soul : 
The Past returns ; they feel 
What they are, alas ! what they were. 

They, not Nature, are changed. 
Well I know what they feel. 

Hush ! for tears 
Begin to steal to their eyes. 
Hush ! for fruit 
Grows from such sorrow as theirs. 

And they remember 
With piercing, untold anguish 
The proud boasting of their youth. 

And they feel how Nature was fair. 
And the mists of delusion, 
And the scales of habit. 
Fall away from their eyes. 
And they see, for a moment. 
Stretching out, like the Desert 
In its weary, unprofitable length, 
Their faded, ignoble lives 

Wliile the locks are yet brown on thy head, 
While the soul still looks through thine eyes, 
While the heart still pours 
The mantling blood to thy cheek, 

Sink, Youth, in thy soul ! 
Yearn to the greatness of Nature ! 
Rally the good in the depths of thyself! 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 



By DE. ARNOLD. 



TWICE in history has there been witnessed the strug- 
gle of the highest individual genius against the re- 
sources and institutions of a great nation ; and in both 
cases the nation has been victorious. For seventeen years 
Hannibal strove against Home ; for sixteen years Napo- 
leon Bonaparte strove against England : the efforts of the 
first ended in Zama, those of the second in Waterloo. 

True it is, as Polybius has said, that Hannibal was sup- 
ported by the zealous exertions of Carthage ; and the 
strength of the opposition to his policy has been very pos- 
sibly exaggerated by the Roman writers. But the zeal of 
his country in the contest, as Polybius himself remarks in 
another place, was itself the work of his family. Never 
did great men more show themselves the living spirit of 
a nation than Hamilcar, and Hasdrubal, and Hannibal, 
during a period of nearly fifty years, approved themselves 
to be to Carthage. It is not, then, merely through our 
ignorance of the internal state of Carthage that Hannibal 
stands so prominent in all our conceptions of the second 
Punic war ; he was really its moving and dii-ectiug power, 
and the energy of his country was but a light reflected from 
his own. History therefore gathers itself into his single 
person : m that vast tempest which, from north and south, 
from the west and the east, broke upon Italy, we see noth- 
ing but Hannibal. 



190 DE. AENOLD. 

But If Hannibal's genius may be likened to the Homeric 
god, who In his hatred of the Trojans rises from the deep 
to rally the fainting Greeks, and to lead them against the 
enemy, so the calm courage with which Hector met his 
more than human adversary in his country's cause Is no 
unworthy Image of the unyielding magnanimity displayed 
by the aristocracy of Rome. As Hannibal utterly eclipses 
Carthage, so on the contrary Fablus, Marcellus, Claudius, 
l^^ero, even Sclpio himself, are as nothing when compared 
to the spirit and wisdom and power of Rome. The senate 
which voted Its thanks to its political enemy, Varro, after 
his disastrous defeat, " because he had not despaired of the 
Commonwealth," and which disdained either to solicit or to 
reprove, or to threaten, or In any way to notice the twelve 
colonies which had refused their accustomed supplies of 
men for the army. Is far more to be honored than the con- 
queror of Zama. This we should the more carefully bear 
in mind, because our tendency is to admire individual great- 
ness far more than national ; and as no single Roman will 
bear comparison with Hannibal, we are apt to murmur at 
the event of the contest, and to think that the victory was 
awarded to the least worthy of the combatants. On the 
contrary, never was the wisdom of God's providence more 
manifest than In the Issue of the struggle between Rome 
and Carthage. It was clearly for the good of mankind that 
Hannibal should be conquered ; his triumph would have 
stopped the progress of the world. For great men can 
only act permanently by forming great nations ; and no one 
man, even though It were Hannibal himself, can In one gen- 
eration effect such a work. But where the nation has been 
merely enkindled for a while by a great man's spirit, the 
light passes away with him who communicated It ; and the 
nation, when he Is gone, is like a dead body, to which magic 
power had for a moment given an unnatural life : when the 
charm has ceased, the body is cold and stiff as before. He 



HANNIBAL'S MAECH INTO ITALY. 191 

wlio grieves over the battle of Zama should cany on his 
thoughts to a period thirty years later, when Hannibal must, 
in the course of nature, have been dead, and consider how 
the isolated Phoenician city of Carthage was fitted to re- 
ceive and to consolidate the civilization of Greece, or by its 
laws and institutions to bind together baibarians of every 
race and language into an organized empire, and prepare 
them for becoming, when that empire was dissolved, the 
free members of the commonwealth of Christian Europe. 

Hannibal was twenty-six years of age when he was ap- 
pointed commander-in-chief of the Carthaginian armies in 
Spain, upon the sudden death of Hasdrubal. Two years, 
we have seen, had been employed in expeditions against the 
native Spaniards ; the third year was devoted to the siege 
of Saguntum. Hannibal's pretext for attacking it was, that 
the Saguntines had oppressed one of the Spanish tribes in 
alliance with Carthage ; but no caution in the Saguntine 
government could have avoided a quarrel, which their en- 
emy was determined to provoke. Saguntum, although not a 
city of native Spaniards, resisted as obstinately as if the 
very air of Spain had breathed into foreign settlers on its 
soil the spirit so often, in many different ages, displayed by 
the Spanish people. Saguntum was defended like Numan- 
tia and Gerona : the siege lasted eight months ; and when 
all hope was gone, several of the cMefs kindled a fii'e in the 
market-place, and after having thrown in their most pre- 
cious effects, leapt into it themselves, and perished. Still 
the spoil found in the place was very considerable ; there 
was a large treasure of money, which Hannibal kept for his 
war expenses ; there were numerous captives, whom he dis 
tributed amongst liis soldiers as their share of the plunder ; 
and there was much costly furniture from the pubhc .and 
private buildings, which he sent home to decorate the tem- 
ples and palaces of Carthage. 

It must have been towards the close of the year, but 



192 DR. ARNOLD. 

apparently before the consuls were returned from Ulyria, 
that the news of the fall of Saguntum reached Rome. Im- 
mediately ambassadors were sent to Carthage ; M. Fabius 
Buteo, who had been consul seven-and-twenty years before, 
C. Liclnius Varus, and Q. Beebius Tamphilus. Their or- 
ders were simply to demand that Hannibal and his principal 
officers should be given up for their attack upon the allies 
of Rome, in breach of the treaty, and, if tliis were refused, 
to declare war. The Carthaginians tried to discuss the pre- 
vious question, whether the attack on Saguntum was a 
breach of the treaty ; but to this the Romans would not 
listen. At length M. Fabius gathered up his toga, as if he 
was wrapping up something in it, and holding it out thus 
folded together, he said, " Behold, here are peace and war ; 
take wliich you choose ! " The Carthaginian suffete, or 
judge, answered, " Give whichever thou wilt." Hereupon 
Fabius shook out the folds of his toga, saying, " Then here 
we give you war " ; to which several members of the coun- 
cil shouted in answer, " With all our hearts we wehiome 
it." Thus the Roman ambassadors left Carthage, and re- 
turned straight to Rome. 

But before the result of this embassy could be known in 
Spain, Hannibal had been making preparations for his 
intended expedition, in a manner which showed, not only 
that he was sure of the support of liis government, but that 
he was able to dispose at his pleasure of all the military 
resources of Carthage. At his suggestion fresh troops from 
Africa were sent over to Spain to secure it during his 
absence, and to be commanded by his own brother, Has- 
drubal ; and their place was to be supplied by other troops 
raised in Spain ; so that Africa was to be defended by 
Spaniards, and Spain by Africans, the soldiers of each 
nation, when quartered amongst foreigners, being cut off 
from all temptation or opportunity to revolt. So com- 
pletely was he allowed to direct every military measure, 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 193 

that lie is said to have sent Spanish and Numidian troops 
to garrison Carthage itself; in other words, this was a part 
of liis general plan, and was adopted accordmgly by the 
government. Meanwhile he had sent ambassadors into 
Gaul, and even across the Alps, to the Gauls who had 
so lately been at war with the ^Romans, both to obtain 
information as to the country through which his march 
lay, and to secure the assistance and guidance of the Gauls 
in his passage of the Alps, and their co-operation in arms 
when he should arrive in Italy. His Spanish troops he had 
dismissed to their several homes at the end of the last cam- 
paign, that they might carry their spoils with them, and teU 
of their exploits to their countrymen, and enjoy, during the 
winter, that almost listless ease which is the barbarian's 
relief from war and plunder. At length he received the 
news of the Roman embassy to Carthage, and the actual 
declaration of war; his officers also had returned from Cis- 
alpine Gaul. "The natural difficulties of the passage of 
the Alps were great," they said, " but by no means insuper- 
able ; Avhile the disposition of the Gauls was most friendly, 
and they were eagerly expecting his arrival." Then Han- 
nibal called his soldiers together, and told them openly that 
he was going to lead them into Italy. " The Romans," he 
said, have demanded that I and my principal officers 
should be delivered up to them as malefactors. Soldiers, 
will you suffer such an indignity ? The Gauls are holding 
out their arms to us, inviting us to come to them, and to 
assist them in revenging their manifold injuries. And the 
country wliich we shall invade, so rich in corn and wine 
and oil, so full of flocks and herds, so covered with flourish- 
ing cities, will be the richest prize that could be offered by 
the gods to reward your valor." One common shout from 
the soldiers assured him of their readiness to follow liim. 
He thanked them, fixed the day on which they were to be 
ready to march, and then dismissed them. 
13 



19 i DR. xiENOLD. 

In tlris interval, and now on the very eve of commencing 
his appointed work, to wliicli for eighteen years he had 
been solemnly devoted, and to wliich he had so long been 
looking fonvard with almost sickening hope, he left the 
head-quarters of his army to visit Gades, and there, in the 
temple of the supreme god of Tyre, and all the colonies of 
Tyre, to oifer his prayers and vows for the success of his 
enterprise. He was attended only by those immediately 
attached to liis person ; and amongst these was a Sicilian 
Greek, Silenus, who followed him throughout his Italian 
expedition, and lived at his table. When the sacrifice was 
over, Hannibal returned to his army at New Carthage; 
and, everything being ready, and the season sufficiently 
advanced, for it was now late in May, he set out on his 
march for the Iberus. 

And here the fulness of his mind, and liis strong sense of 
being the devoted instrument of his country's gods to de- 
stroy their enemies, haunted him by night as they possessed 
him by day. In his sleep, so he told Silenus, he fancied 
that the supreme god of his fathers had called him into the 
presence of all the gods of Carthage, who were sitting on 
theii- thrones in council. There he received a solemn 
charge to invade Italy; and one of the heavenly council 
went with him. and with his army, to guide him on his way. 
He went on, and his divine guide commanded him, " See 
that thou look not behind thee." But after a while, im- 
patient of the restraint, he turned to look back ; and there 
he beheld a huge and monstrous form, thick-set all over 
with serpents ; wherever it moved orchards and woods and 
houses fell crushing before it. He asked his guide in won- 
der what that monster form was? The god answered, 
" Thou seest the desolation of Italy ; go on thy way, 
straight forward, and cast no look beliind." Thus, with 
no divided heart, and with an entire resignation of all 
personal and domestic enjoyments forever, Hannibal went 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 195 

forth, at the age of twentj-seven, to do the work of his 
country's gods, and to redeem his early vow. 

The consuls at Rome came into office at this period on 
the fifteenth of March ; it was possible, therefore, for a con- 
sular army to arrive on the scene of action in time to 
dispute with Hannibal, not only the passage of the Ehone, 
but that of the Pyrenees. But the Romans exaggerated 
the difficulties of his march, and seem to have expected that 
the resistance of the Spanish tribes between the Iberus and 
the Pyrenees, and of the Gauls between the Pyrenees and 
the Rhone, would so delay him that he would not reach the 
Rhone till the end of the season. They therefore made 
their preparations leisurely. 

Of the consuls for this year, the year of Rome 53 G, 
and 218 before the Christian era, one was P. Cornelius 
Scipio, the son of L. Scipio, who had been consul in the 
sixth 3 ear of the first Punic war, and the grandson of L. 
Scipio Barbatus, whose services in the third Samnite war 
are rcviorded in his' famous epitaph. The other was Ti. 
Sempronius Longus, probably, but not certainly, the son 
of that C. Sempronius Bltesus who had been consul in 
the year 501. The consul's provinces were to be Spain 
and Sicily; Scipio, with two Roman legions, and 15,600 
of the Italian allies, and with a fleet of sixty quinqueremes, 
was to command in Spain ; Sempronius, with a somewhat 
larger army, and a fleet of 160 quinqueremes, was to cross 
over to Lilybi:eum, and from thence, if circumstances fa- 
vored, to make a descent on Africa. A third army, con- 
sisting also of two Roman legions, and 11,000 of the allies, 
was stationed in Cisalpine Gaul, under the praetor, L. Man- 
lius Vulso. The Romans suspected that the Gauls would 
rise in arms erelong; and they hastened to send out the 
colonists of two colonies, which had been resolved on before, 
but not actually founded, to occuny the important stations of 
Placentia and Cremona on tlie opposite banks of the Po. 



19G DE. ARNOLD. 

The colonists sent to each of these places ^7ere no fewer 
than six thousand ; and the j received notice to be at their 
colonies in thirty days. Three commissioners, one of them 
C. Lutatius Catulus, being of consular rank, were sent out 
as usual, to superintend the allotment of lands to the set- 
tlers; and these 12,000 men, together with the praetor's 
army, were supposed to be capable of keeping the Gauls 
quiet. 

It is a curious fact, that the danger on the side of Spain 
was considered to be so much the less urgent, that Scipio's 
army was raised the last, after those of his colleague and of 
the prcetor, L. Manlius. Indeed, Scipio was still at Rome, 
when tidings came that the Boians and Insubrians had 
revolted, had dispersed the new settlers at Placentia and 
Cremona, and driven them to take refuge at Mutina, had 
treacherously seized the three commissioners at a confer- 
ence, and had defeated the praetor, L. Manlius, and obliged 
him also to take shelter in one of the towns of Cisalpine 
Gaul, where they were blockading him. One of Scipio's 
legions, with five thousand of the allies, was immediately 
sent off into Gaul under another praetor, C. Atilius Ser- 
ranus ; and Scipio waited till his own army should again be 
completed by new levies. Thus, he cannot have left Rome 
till late in the summer ; and when he arrived with his fleet 
and army at the mouth of the eastern branch of the Rhone, 
he found that Hannibal had crossed the Pyrenees ; but he 
still hoped to impede his passage of the river. 

Hannibal, meanwhile, having set out from New Carthage 
with an army of 90,000 foot and 12,000 horse, crossed the 
Iberus ; and from thenceforward the hostile operations of 
his march began. He might, probably, have marched 
through the country between the Iberus and the Pyrenees, 
had that been his sole object, as easily as he made liis way 
from the Pyrenees to the Rhone ; a few presents and civili- 
ties would easily have induced the Spanish cliiefs to allow 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 197 

him a fr(.e passage. But some of the tribes northward of 
the Iberus ^Yere friendly to Rome : on the coast were the 
Greek cities of Rhoda and Emporice, Massaliot <iolonies, 
and thus attached to the Romans as the old allies of their 
mother city : if this part of Spain were left unconquered, 
the Romans w^ould immediately make use of it as the base 
of their operations, and proceed from thence to attack the 
whole Carthaginian dominion. Accordingly, Hannibal em- 
ployed his army in subduing the whole country, which he 
effected with no great loss of time, but at a heavy expense 
of men, as he was obliged to carry the enemy's strongholds 
by assault, rather than incur the delay of besieging them. 
He left Hanno wdth eleven thousand men to retain posses- 
sion of the newly-conquered country j and he further dimin- 
ished his army by sending home as many more of liis 
Spanish soldiers, probably those w^ho had most distinguished 
themselves, as an earnest to the rest, that they too, if they 
did their duty well, might expect a similar release, and 
might look forward to return erelong to their homes full of 
spoil and of glory. These detachments, together with the 
heavy loss sustained in the field, reduced the force with 
which Hannibal entered Gaul to no more than 50,000 foot 
and 9,000 horse. 

From the Pyrenees to the Rhone Ms progress was easy. 
Here he had no wish to make regular conquests ; and pres- 
ents to the chiefs mostly succeeded in conciliating their 
friendship, so that he was allowed to pass freely. But on 
the left bank of the Rhone the influence of the Massaliots 
with the Gaulish tribes had disposed them to resist the in- 
vader ; and the passage of the Rhone was not to be effected 
without a contest. 

Scipio, by this time, had landed his army near the east- 
ern mouth of the Rhone ; and his information of Hannibal's 
movements was vague and imperfect. His men had suf- 
fered from sea-sickness on their voyage from Pisa to the 



198 DR. ARNOLD. 

Rhone ; and lie wished to give them a short time to recover 
their strength and spirits, before he led them against the 
enemy. He still felt confident that Hannibal's advance 
from the Pyrenees must be slow, supposing that he would 
be obliged to fight his way ; so that he never doubted that 
he should have ample time to oppose his passage of the 
Rhone. Meanwhile he sent out 300 horse, with some 
Gauls, who were in the service of the Massaliots, ordering 
them to ascend the left bank of the Rhone, and discover, if 
possible, the situation of the enemy. He seems to have 
])een unwilling to place the river on his rear, and therefore 
never to have thought of conducting liis operations on the 
right bank, or even of sending out reconnoitring parties 
in this direction. 

The resolution which Scipio formed a few days after- 
wards, of sending liis army to Spain, when he himself re- 
turned to Italy, was deserving of such liigh praise, that we 
must hesitate to accuse him of over caution or needless 
delay at this critical moment. Yet he was sitting idle at 
the mouth of the Rhone, while the Gauls were vainly 
endeavoring to oppose Hannibal's passage of the river. 
We must understand that Hannibal kept his army as far 
away from the sea as possible, in order to conceal his move- 
ments from the Romans ; therefore he came upon the 
Rhone, not on the line of the later Roman road from Spain 
to Italy, which crossed the river at Tarasco, between Avig- 
non and Aries, but at a point much higher up, above its 
confluence with the Durance, and nearly half-way, if we 
can trust Polybius's reckoning, from the sea to its confluence 
with the Isere. Here he obtained from the natives on the 
right bank, by paying a fixed price, all their boats and ves- 
sels of every description with which they were accustomed 
to trafiic down the river : they allowed him also to cut tim- 
ber for the construction of others ; and thus in two days he 
was provided with the means of transporting his army. 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 199 

But finding tliat the Gauls were assembled on the eastern 
bank to oj)po&e his passage, he sent oflf a detachment of his 
army by niglit mth native guides, to ascend the right bank, 
for about two-and-twenty miles, and there to cross as they 
could, where there was no enemy to stop them. The woods, 
which then lined the river, supplied this detachment with 
the means of constructing barks and rafts enough for the 
passage ; they took advantage of one of the many islands in 
this part of the Rhone, to cross where the stream was 
divided ; and thus they all reached the left bank in safety. 
There they took up a strong position, probably one of those 
strange masses of rock which rise here and there with steep 
cliffy sides like islands out of the vast plain, and rested for 
four-and-twenty hours after their exertions in the march 
and the passage of the river. 

Hannibal allowed eight-and-forty hours to pass from the 
time when the detachment left his camp ; and then, on the 
morning of the fifth day after his arrival on the Rhone, he 
]nade his preparations for the passage of his main army. 
The mighty stream of the river, fed by the snows of the 
liigh Alps, is swelled rather than diminished by the heats of 
summer ; so that, although the season was that when the 
southern rivers are generally at their lowest, it was rolling 
the vast mass of its waters along with a startling fulness and 
rapidity. The heaviest vessels were therefore placed on the 
left, highest up the stream, to form something of a break- 
v/ater for the smaller craft crossing below ; the small boats 
held the flower of the light-armed foot, while the cavalry 
were in the larger vessels ; most of the horses being towed 
astern swimming, and a single soldier holding three or four 
together by their bridles. Everything was ready, and the 
Gauls on the opposite side had poured out of their camp, 
and lined the bank in scattered groups at the most accessible 
points, thinking that their task of stopping the enemy's land- 
ing would be easily accomplished. At length Hannibal's 



200 DR. ARNOLD. 

eye observed a column of smoke rising on the farther shore, 
above or on the right of the barbarians. This was the con- 
certed signal wliich assured him of the arrival of his detach- 
ment ; and he instantly ordered his men to embark, and 
to push across with all possible speed. They pulled vigor- 
ously against the rapid stream, cheering each other to the 
work ; while behind them were their friends, cheering them 
also from the bank ; and before them were the Gauls sing- 
ing their war-songs, and calling them to come on with tones 
and gestures of defiance. But on a sudden a mass of fire 
was seen on the rear of the barbarians ; the Gauls on the 
bank looked behind, and began to turn away from the river ; 
and presently the bright arms and white linen coats of the 
African and Spanish soldiers appeared above the bank, 
breaking in upon the disorderly line of the Gauls. Hanni- 
bal himself, who was with the party crossing the river, 
leaped on shore amongst the first, and forming his men as 
fast as they landed, led them instantly to the charge. But 
the Gauls, confused and bewildered, made little resistance ; 
they fled in utter rout ; whilst Hannibal, not losing a mo- 
ment, sent back his vessels and boats for a fresh detachment 
of his army ; and before night his whole force, vfith the 
exception of his elephants, was safely established on the 
eastern side of the Rhone. 

As the river was no longer between him and the enemy, 
Hannibal early on the next morning sent out a party of 
Numidian cavalry to discover the position and number of 
Scipio's forces, and then called his army together, to see and 
hear the communications of some cliiefs of the Cisalpine 
Gaiils, who were just arrived from the other side of the 
Alps. Their words were explained to the Africans and 
Spaniards in the army by interpreters ; but the very sight 
of the chiefs was itself an encouragement ; for it told the 
soldiers that the communication with Cisalpine Gaul was 
not impracticable, and that the Gauls had undertaken so 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 201 

long a journey for the purpose of obtaining the aid of the 
Carthaginian army, against their old enemies, the Romans. 
Besides, the interpreters explained to the soldiers that the 
chiefs undertook to guide them into Italy by a short and 
safe route, on which they would be able to find provisions ; 
and spoke strongly of the great extent and richness of Italy, 
when they did arrive there, and how zealously the Gauls 
Avould aid them. Hannibal then came forward himself and 
addressed his army : their work, he said, was more than half 
accomplished by the passage of the Rhone ; their own eyes 
and ears had witnessed the zeal of their Gaulish alUes in 
their cause ; for the rest, their business was to do their duty, 
and obey his orders implicitly, leaving everything else to 
him. The cheers and shouts of the soldiers again satisfied 
him how fully he might depend upon them; and he then 
addressed his prayers and vows to the gods of Carthage, 
imploring them to watch over the army, and to prosper its 
work to the end, as they had prospered its beginning. The 
soldiers were now dismissed, with orders to prepare for 
their march on the morrow. 

Scarcely was the assembly broken up, when some of the 
Numidians who had been sent out in the morning were 
seen riding for their lives to the camp, manifestly in flight 
from a victorious enemy. Not half of the original party 
returned ; for they had fallen in with Scipio's detachment of 
Roman and Gaulish horse, and, after an obstinate conflict, 
had been completely beaten. Presently after, the Roman 
horsemen appeared in pursuit ; but when they observed the 
Carthaginian camp, they wheeled about and rode off, to 
carry back word to their general. Then at last Scipio put 
his army in motion, and ascended the left bank of the river 
to find and engage the enemy. But when he arrived at the 
spot where his cavalry had seen the Carthaginian camp, he 
found it deserted, and was told that Hannibal had been gone 
three days, having marched northwards, ascending the left 



202 DR. ARNOLD. 

bank of the river. To follow Mm seemed desperate : it was 
plunging into a coimtrj wholly unknown to the Romans, 
where they had neither allies nor guides, nor resources of 
any kind ; and where the natives, over and above the com- 
mon jealousy felt by all barbarians towards a foreign army, 
were likely, as Gauls, to regard the Romans with peculiar 
hostihty. But if Hamiibal could not be follt*wed now, he 
might easily be met on his first arrival in Italy ; from the 
mouth of the Rhone to Pisa was the chord of a circle, while 
Hannibal was going to make a long circuit; and the Ro- 
mans had an army already in Cisalpine Gaul; while the 
enemy would reach the scene of action exhausted with the 
fatigues and privations of his march across the Alps. Ac- 
cordingly, Scipio descended the Rhone again, embarked his 
army and sent it on to "Spain under the command of his 
brother, Cngeus Scipio, as his lieutenant ; wliile he himself 
in his own ship, sailed for Pisa, and immediately crossed 
the Apennines to take the command of the forces of the two 
praetors, Manlius and Atilius, who, as we have seen, had an 
army of about 25,000 men, over and above the colonists of 
Placentia and Cremona, still disposable in Cisalpine Gaul. 

This resolution of Scipio to send liis own army on to 
Spain, and to meet Hannibal with the army of the two prae- 
tors, aj)pears to show that he possessed the highest qualities 
of a general, which involve the wisdom of a statesman no 
less than of a soldier. As a mere military question, his 
calculation, though baffled by the event, was somid ; but if 
^Ye view it in a higher light, the importance to the Romans 
of retaining their hold on Spain would have justified a far 
greater hazard ; for if the Carthaginians were suffered to 
consolidate their dominion in Spain, and to avail themselves 
of its immense resources, not in money only, but in men, the 
hardiest and steadiest of barbarians, and, under the training 
of such generals as Hannibal and his brother, equal to the 
best soldiers in the world, the Romans would hardly have 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 203 

been able to maintain the contest. Had not P. Scipio then 
despatched his army to Spain at this critical moment, instead 
of carrying it home to Italy, his son in all probability would 
never have won the battle of Zama. 

Meanwhile Hannibal, on the day after the skirmish with 
Scipio's horse, had sent forward liis infantiy, keeping the 
cavalry to cover his operations, as he still expected the Ro- 
mans to pursue him; while he himself waited to super- 
intend the passage of the elephants. These were thirty- 
seven in number ; and then* dread of the water made their 
transport a very difficult operation. It was effected by 
fastening to the bank large rafts of 200 feet in length, cov- 
ered carefully wdth earth : to the end of these smaller rafts 
were attached, covered v\dth earth in the same manner, and 
with towing lines extended to a number of the largest barks, 
which were to tow them over the stream. The elephants, 
two females leading the way, were brought upon the rafts 
by their drivers without difficulty ; and as soon as they 
came upon the smaller rafts, these were cut loose at once 
from the larger, and towed out into the middle of the river. 
Some of the elephants, in theii' terror, leaped overboard, 
and drowned their drivers ; but they themselves, it is said, 
held their huge trunks above w^ater, and struggled to the 
shore ; so that the whole thirty-seven were landed in safety. 
Then Hannibal called in his cavalry, and covering liis 
march ^vith them and with the elephants, set forward up 
the left bank of the Rhone to overtake the infantry. 

In four days they reached the spot where the Isere, com- 
ing doAvn from the main Alps, brings to the Rhone a stream 
hardly less full or mighty than his own. In the j)lams 
above the; confluence two Gaulish brothers were contending 
which should be chief of their tribe ; and the elder called 
in the stranger general to support his cause. Hannibal 
readily complied, established him firmly on the throne, and 
received important aid from him in return. He supplied 



204 DR. ARNOLD. 

the Cartliagiman army plentifully with provisions, furnished 
them with new arms, gave them new clothing, especially 
shoes, wliich were found very useful in the subsequent 
march, and accompanied them to the first entrance on the 
mountain country, to secure them from, attacks on the part 
of his countrymen. 

The . attentive reader, who is acquainted with the geogra- 
phy of the Alps and theu' neighborhood, mil perceive that 
this account of Hannibal's march is vague. It does not 
appear whether the Carthaginians ascended the left bank of 
the Isere or the right bank ; or whether they continued to 
ascend the Rhone for a time, and, leaving it only so far as to 
avoid the great angle which it makes, at Lyons, rejoined it 
again just before they entered the mountain country, a little 
to the left of the present road from Lyons to Chamberri. 
But these uncertainties cannot now be removed, because 
Polybius neither possessed a sufficient knowledge of the 
bearings of the country, nor sufficient liveliness as a painter, 
to describe the line of the march so as to be clearly recog- 
nized. I believe, however, that Hannibal crossed the Isere, 
and continued to ascend the Rhone ; and that afterwards, 
striking off to the right across the plains of Dauphine, he 
reached what Polybius calls the first ascent of the Alps, at 
the northern extremity of that ridge of limestone moun- 
tains, which, rising abruptly from the plain to the height of 
4,000 or 5,000 feet, and filling up the whole space between 
the Rhone at Belley and the Isere below Grenoble, first 
introduces the traveller coming from Lyons to the remark- 
able features of Alpine scenery. 

At the end of the lowland country, the Gaulish chief, who 
had accompanied Hannibal thus far, took leave of him : his 
influence probably did not extend to the Alpine valleys ; 
and the mountaineers, far from respecting his safe-conduct, 
might be in the habit of making plundermg inroads on his 
own territory. Here then Hannibal was left to himself; 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 205 

and lie foiiiid that the natives were prepared to beset liis 
])assage. They occupied all such pomts as commanded the 
road ; which, as usual, was a sort of terrace cut in the 
mountain-side, overhanging the valley whereby it pene- 
trated to the central ridge. But as the mountain line is of 
]io great breadth here, the natives guarded the defile only 
by day, and mthdrew when night came on to their own 
homes, in a to^\Ti or village among the mountains, and lying 
in the valley behind them. Hannibal, having learnt this 
from some of liis Gaulish guides whom he sent among them, 
encamped in their sight just below the entrance of the de- 
file ; and as soon as it was dusk, he set out with a detach- 
ment of light troops, made his way through the pass, and 
occupied the positions which the barbarians, after their usual , 
practice, had abandoned at the approach of night. 

Day dawned ; the main army broke up from its camp, 
and began to enter the defile ; while the natives, finding 
their positions occupied by the enemy, at first looked on qui- 
etly, and offered no disturbance to the march. But when 
they saw the long narrow line of the Carthaginian army 
Avinding along the steep mountain-side, and the cavalry and 
baggage-cattle struggling at every step with the difficulties 
of the road, the temptation to plunder was too strong to be 
resisted ; and from many points of the mountain above the 
road they rushed down upon the Carthaginians. The con- 
fusion was terrible : for the road or track was so narrow, 
that the least crowd or disorder pushed the heavily loaded 
baggage-cattle down the steep below ; and the horses, 
wounded by the barbarians' missiles, and plunging about 
wildly in their pain and terror, increased the mischief. At 
last Hannibal was obliged to charge down from his position, 
which commanded the whole scene of confusion, and to 
drive the barbarians off. This he effected ; yet the conflict 
of so many men on the narrow road made the disorder 
worse for a time ; and he unavoidably occasioned the de- 



206 DE. ARNOLD. 

struction of many of liis own men. At last, the barbarians 
being quite beaten oiF, the armj wound its way out of the 
defile in safety, and rested in the wide and rich valley which 
extends from the lake of Bourget, with scarcely a percep- 
tible change of level, to the Isere at Montmeillan. Hanni- 
bal meanwhile attacked and stormed the town, which was 
the barbarians' principal stronghold ; and here he not only 
recovered a great many of his own men, horses, and bag- 
gage-cattle, but also found a large supply of corn and cattle 
belonging to the barbarians, which he immediately made 
use of for the consumption of his soldiers. 

In the plain which he had now reached, he halted for a 
whole day, and then, resuming his march, proceeded for 
three days up the valley of the Isere on the i^ight bank, 
without encountering any difficulty. Then the natives met 
him with branches of trees in their hands, and wreaths on 
their heads, in token of peace : they spoke fairly, offered 
hostages, and wished, they said, neither to do the Cartha- 
ginians any injury, nor to receive any from them. Hanni- 
bal mistrusted them, yet did not wish to offend them ; he 
accepted their terms, received their hostages, and obtained 
large supplies of cattle ; and their whole behavior seemed 
so trustworthy, that at last he accepted their guidance, it is 
said, through a difficult part of the country, which he was 
now approaching. For all the Alpine valleys become nar- 
rower, as they draw nearer to the central chain ; and the 
mountains often come so close to the stream, that the roads 
in old times were often obliged to leave the valley and 
ascend the hills by any accessible point, to descend again 
when the gorge became wider, and follow the stream as 
before. If this is not done, and the track is carried ^learer 
the river, it passes often through defiles of the most formi- 
dable character, being no more than a narrow ledge above a 
furious torrent, with cliffs rising above it absolutely precip- 
itous, and coming down on the other side of the torrent 



HANNIBAL'S MARCH INTO ITALY. 207 

abruptly to the water, leaving no passage by which man or 
(even goat could make its way. 

It appears that the barbarians persuaded Hannibal to 
pass through one of these defiles, instead of going round it ; 
and while liis army was involved m it, they suddenly, and 
without provocation, as we are told, attacked him. Making 
their way along the mountain-sides above the defile, they 
rolled down masses of rock on the Carthaginians below, or 
even threw stones upon them from their hands, stones and 
rocks bein^ equally fatal against an enemy so entangled. 
It was well for Hannibal, that, still doubting the barbarians' 
faith, he had sent forward his cavalry and baggage, and cov- 
ered the march with liis infantry, who thus had to sustain 
the brunt of the attack. Foot-soldiers on such ground w^ere 
able to move where horses Avould be quite helpless ; and 
thus at last Hamiibal, with his infantry, forced his way to 
the summit of one of the bare cliffs overhanging the defile, 
and remained there during the night, whilst the cavalry and 
baggage slowly struggled out of the defile. Thus again 
baffled, the barbarians made no more general attacks on the 
army ; some partial annoyance was occasioned at intervals, 
and some baggage was carried off; but it was observed that 
wherever the elephants were the line of march was secure ; 
for the barbarians beheld those huge creatures with terror, 
having never had the slightest knowledge of them, and not 
daring to approach when they saw them. 

Without any further recorded difficulty, the army on the 
ninth day after they had left the plains of Dauphine arrived 
at the summit of the central ridge of the Alps. Here there 
is always a plain of some extent, immediately overhung by 
the snowy summits of the high mountains, bat itself in 
summer presenting in many parts a carpet of the freshest 
grass, with the chalets of the shepherds scattered over it, 
and gay with a thousand flowers. But far different is its 
aspect through the greatest part of the year : then it is one 



208 DR. ARNOLD. 

unvaried waste of snow ; and tlie little lakes, which ou 
many of the passes enliven the summer landscape, are now 
frozen over and covered with snow, so as to be no longer 
distinguishable. Hannibal was on the summit of the Alps 
about the end of October : the first winter snows had 
/ilready fallen ; but two hundred years before the Christian 
era, Avhcn all Germany w^as one vast forest, the climate of 
the Alps was far colder than at present, and the snow lay 
on the passes all through the year. Thus the soldiers were 
in dreary quarters; they remained two days on the summit, 
resting from their fatigues, and giving opportunity to many 
of the stragglers, and of the horses and cattle, to rejoin 
them by following their track ; but they were cold, and 
worn, and disheartened ; and mountains still rose before 
them, tlu^ough which, as they knew too well, even their 
descent might be perilous and painful. 

But their great general, who felt that he now stood victo- 
I'ious on the ramparts of Italy, and that the torrent which 
I'oUed before him was carrying its waters to the rich plains 
of Cisalpine Gaul, endeavored to kindle his soldiers with 
Ills own spirit of hope. He called them together ; he 
pointed out the valley beneath, to which the descent seemed 
the work of a moment. " That valley," he said, " is Italy ; it 
leads us to the country of our friends the Gauls ; and yon- 
der is our way to Rome." His eyes were eagerly fixed on 
that point of the horizon ; and as he gazed, the distance 
between seemed to vanish, till he could almost fancy that 
lie was crossing the Tiber, and assailing the capitol. 

After the two days' rest the descent began. Hannibal 
experienced no more open hostility from the barbarians, 
only some petty attempts here and there to plunder ; a fact 
strange in itself, but doubly so, if he was really descending 
the valley of the Doria Baltea, through the country of the 
Salassians, the most untamable robbers of all thd Alpine 
barbarians. It is possible that the influence of the Insu- 



HANNIBAL'S .MARCH INTO ITALY. 209 

briang may partly have restrained the mountaineers ; and 
partly also may they have been deterred by the ill success 
of all former attacks, and may by this time have regarded 
the strange army and its monstrous beasts with something 
of superstitious terror. But the natural difficulties of the 
gi'ound on the descent were greater than ever. The snow 
covered the track so that the men often lost it, and fell down 
the steep below: at last they came to a place where an 
avalanche had carried it away altogether for about tln-ee 
hundred yards, leaving the mountain-side a mere wreck of 
scattered rocks and snow. To go round was impossible ; for 
the depth of the snow on the heights above rendered it 
hopeless to scale them; nothing therefore was left but tu 
repair the road. A summit of some extent was found, and 
cleared of the snow; and here the army was obliged to 
encamp, whilst the work went on. There was no want of 
hands ; and every man was laboring for his life ; the road 
therefore was restored, and supported with solid substmc- 
tions below ; and in a single day it was made practicable for 
the cavalry and baggage-cattle, which were immediately 
sent forward, and reached the lower valley in safety, where 
they were turned out to pasture. A harder labor was 
required to make a passage for the elephants : the way for 
them must be wide and solid ; and the work could not be 
accomplished in less than three days. The poor animals 
suffered severely in the interval from hunger ; for no forage 
was to be found in that wilderness of snow, nor any trees 
whose leaves might supply the place of other herbage. At 
last they too were able to proceed with safety; Hannibal 
overtook his cavalry and baggage ; and in three days more 
the whole army had got clear of the Alpine valleys, and 
entered the country of their friends, the Insubrians, on the 
wide plain of Northern Italy. 

Hannibal was arrived in Italy, but with a force so weak- 
ened by its losses in men and horses, and by the exhausted 
U 



210 DE. ARNOLD. 

state of the survivors, that he might seem to have accom- 
plished his great march in vain. According to his own 
statement, which there is no reason to doubt, he brought out 
of the Alpine valleys no more than 12,000 African and 
8,000 Spanish infantry, with 6,000 cavalry ; so that his 
march from the Pyrenees to the plains of Northern Italy 
must have cost him 33,000 men ; an enormous loss, which 
proves how severely the army must have suffered from the 
privations of the march and the severity of the Alpine cli- 
mate ; for not half of these 33,000 men can have fallen in 
battle. With his army in this condition, some period of 
repose w^s absolutely necessary; accordingly, Hannibal 
remained in the country of the Insubrians till rest, and a 
more temperate climate, and wholesome food, with which 
the Gauls plentifully supplied him, restored the bodies and 
spirits of his soldiers, and made them again ready for action. 
His first movement was against the Taurinians, a Ligurian 
people, who were constant enemies of the Insubrians, and 
therefore would not listen to Hannibal, when he invited 
them to join his cause. He therefore attacked and stormed 
their principal town, put the garrison to the sword, and 
struck such terror into the neighboring tribes, that they sub- 
mitted immediately, and became his allies. This was his 
first accession of strength in Italy, the first-fruits, as he 
hoped, of a long succession of defections among the alhes 
of Eome, so that the swords of the ItaUans might effect for 
him the conquest of Italy. 



THE MONK FELIX. 

By henry W. LONGFELLOW. 







NE morning, all alone, 



Out of his convent of gray stone, 
Into the forest, older, darker, grayer, 
His lips moving as if in prayer, 
His head sunken upon liis breast 
As in a dream of rest. 
Walked the Monk Felix. All about 
The broad, sweef sunshine lay without, 
Filling the summer air ; 
And within the woodlands as he trod 
The twilight was like the Truce of God 
With worldly woe and care ; 
Under him lay the golden moss ; 
And above him the boughs of hemlock-trees 
"Waved, and made the sign of the cross, 
And whispered their Benedicites ; 
And from the ground 
Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 
Of the wild-flowers and the vagrant 
Vines that wandered, 
Seekinof the sunshine, round and round. 



These he heeded not, but pondered 
On the volume in his hand, 



212 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

A volume of Saint Augustine, 

Wherein he read of the unseen 

Splendors of God's great town 

In the unknown land, 

And, with his eyes cast down 

In humility, he said : 

« I believe, O God, 

"What herein I have read, 

But alas ! I do not understand ! '* 

And lo ! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud 

Dropped down. 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringings 

And the Monk Felix closed his book, 

And long, long. 

With rapturous look, 

He listened to the song. 

And hardly breathed or stirred, 

Until he saw, as in a vision. 

The land Elysian, 

And in the heavenly city heard 

Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the street. 

And he would fain 

Have caught the wondrous bird, 

But strove in vain ; 

For it flew away, away. 

Far over hill and dell, 

And instead of its sweet singing 

He heard the convent bell 

Suddenly in the silence ringing 



THE MONK FELIX. 213 

For the service of noonday. 

And he retraced 

His pathway homeward sadly and in haste. 

In the convent was a change ! 

He looked for each well-known face, 

But the faces were new and strange ; 

New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 

New voices chanted in the choir ; 

Yet the place was the same place. 

The same dusky walls 

Of cold, gray stone. 

The same cloisters and belfry and spire. 

A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 

" Forty years," said a Friar, 

" Have I been Prior 

Of this convent in the wood. 

But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face ! " 

The heart of the Monk Felix fell : 

And he answered, with submissive tone, 

" This morning, after the hour of Prime 

I left my cell. 

And wandered forth alone. 

Listening all the time 

To the melodious singing 

Of a beautiful white bird, 

UrM I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 

Noon from their noisy towers. 

It was as if I dreamed ; 



214 HENEY W. LONGFELLOW. 

For what to me had seemed 
Moments only, had been hours ! " 

" Years ! " said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall ; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 

Had he been there. 

Serving God in prayer. 

The meekest and humblest of his creatures. 

He remembered well the features 

Of Felix, and he said. 

Speaking distinct and slow : 

" One hundred years ago. 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of God's grace, 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be the same." 

And straightway 

They brought forth to the light of day 

.A volume old and brown, 

A huge tome, bound 

In brass and wild-boar's hide, 

Wherein were written down 

The names of all who had died 

In the convent, since it was edified. 

And there they found. 

Just as the old monk said, 

That on a certain day and date. 

One hundred years before, 

Had gone forth from the convent gate 

The Monk Felix, and never more 

Had entered that sacred door. 



THE MONK FL^IX. 215 

He had been counted among the dead ! 

And they knew, at last, 

That, such had been the power 

Of that celestial and immortal song, 

A hundred years had passed, 

And had not seemed so long 

As a single hour ! 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 

By THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

THE little valley of Easedale is one of the most impres- 
sive solitudes among the mountains of the lake district ; 
and I must pause to describe it. Easedale is impressive, 
Jirst, as a solitude ; for the depth of the seclusion is brought 
out and forced more pointedly upon the feelings by the thin 
scattering of houses over its sides, and the surface of what 
may be called its floor. These are not above five or six 
at the most ; and one, the remotest of the whole, was un- 
tenanted for all the tliirty years of my acquaintance with 
the place. Secondly, it is impressive from the excessive love- 
liness which adorns its little area. This is broken up into 
small fields and miniature meadows, separated not — as too 
often happens, with sad injury to the beauty of the lake 
country — by stone-walls, but sometimes by little hedge-rows, 
sometimes by little sparkhng, pebbly " beck," lustrous to the 
very bottom, and not too broad for a child's flying leap ; 
and sometimes by Avild self-so'\\m woodlands of birch, alder, 
holly, mountain-ash, and hazel, that meander through the 
valley, intervening the different estates with natural sylvan 
marches, and giving cheerfulness in winter, by the bright 
scarlet of their barrier. It is the character of all the north- 
ern English valleys, as I have already remarked, — and it 
is a character first noticed by Wordsworth, — that they 
assume, in their bottom areas, the level, floor like shape," 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTEOPHE. 217 

making everywhere a direct angle with the surrounding 
hills, and definitely marking out the margin of their out- 
lines ; whereas the "Welsh valleys have too often the glar- 
ing imperfection of the basin shape, which allows no sense 
of any absolute valley surface; the hills are already com- 
mencing at the very centre of what is called the level area. 
The little valley of Easedale is, in this respect, as highly 
finished as in every other ; and in the Westmoreland spring, 
which may be considered May and the earlier half of June, 
whilst the grass in the meadows is yet short from the 
habit of keeping the sheep on it until a much later period 
than elsewhere, (viz. until the mountains are so far cleared 
of snow and the probabihty of storms as to make it safe 
to send them out on their summer migration,) the little 
fields of Easedale have the most lawny appearance, and, 
from the humidity of the Westmoreland climate, the most 
verdant that it is possible' to imagine ; and on a gentle 
vernal day — when vegetation has been far enough ad- 
vanced to bring out the leaves, an April sun gleaming 
coyly through the clouds, and genial April rain gently 
penciling the light spray of the wood with tiny pearl- 
drops — I have often thought, whilst lookmg with silent 
admiration upon this exquisite composition of landscape, 
with its miniature fields running up like forest glades into 
miniature woods ; its little columns of smoke, breathing up 
like incense to the household gods, from the hearths of two 
or three pictm^esque cottages, — abodes of simple, primi- 
tive manners, and what, from personal knowledge, I will 
call humble virtue, — whilst my eyes rested on this charm- 
ing combination of lawns and shrubberies, I have thought 
that if a scene on this earth could deserve to be sealed up, 
like the vaUey of Rasselas, against the intrusion of the 
world, — if there were one to which a man would willingly 
surrender himself a prisoner for the years of a long life, 
— that it is this Easedale, — which would justify the 



218 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

Choice, and recompense the sacrifice. But there is a third 
advantage possessed by this Easedale, above other rival 
valleys, in the sublimity of its mountain barriers. In one 
of its many rocky recesses is seen a " force " (such is the 
local name for a cataract), white with foam, descenduig at 
all seasons with respectable strength, and after the melting 
of snows with an Alpine violence. Follow the leading of 
this " force " for three quarters of a mile, and you come to 
a little mountain lake, locally termed a "tarn," the very 
finest and most gloomy sublime of its class. From tliis 
tai'n it was, I doubt not, though applying it to another, 
that Wordsworth drew the circumstances of his general 
description : — 

" Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, 

And mists that spread the flying shroud ; 
And winds 

That, if they could, would hurry past : 

But that enormous barrier binds them fast. 
&c. &c. &c. 

The rocks repeat the raven's croak, 

In symphony austere." 

And far beyond this " enormous barrier," that thus impris- 
ons the very winds, tower upwards the aspiring heads 
(usually enveloped in cloud and mist) of Glaramara, Bow 
Fell, and the other fells of Langdale Head and Borrow^- 
dale. Finally, superadded to the other circumstances of 
solitude, arising out of the rarity of human hfe, and of the 
signs which mark the goings on of human life, — two other 
accidents there are of Easedale which sequester it from 
the world, and intensify its depth of solitude beyond what 
could well be looked for or thought possible in any vale 
within a district so beaten by modem tourists. One is, 
that it is a chamber within a chamber, or rather a closet 
within a chamber, — a chapel within a cathedral, — a little 
private oratory within a chapel. For Easedale is, in fact, 
a dependency of Grasmere, — a little recess lying within 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 219 

the same general basin of mountains, but partitioned off 
by a screen of rock and swelling uplands, so inconsiderable 
in height, that, when surveyed from the commanding sum- 
mits of Fairfield or Seat Sandal, they seem to subside into 
the level area, and melt into the general surface. But, 
viewed from below, these petty heights form a sufficient 
partition ; which is pierced, however, in two points, — 
once by the little murmuring brook threading its silvery 
line onwards to the lake of Grasmere, and again by a little 
rough lane, barely capable (and I think not capable in all 
points) of receiving a postchaise. This Httle lane keeps 
ascending amongst wooded steeps for a quarter of a mile ; 
and then, by a downward course of a hundred yards or 
so, brings you to a point at which the little valley- suddenly 
bursts upon you with as full a revelation of its tiny pro- 
portions as the traversing of the wooded backgrounds 
will permit. The lane carries you at last to a little v^'ooden 
bridge, practicable for pedestrians ; but for carriages, even 
the doubtful road already mentioned ceases altogether: 
and tliis fact, coupled with the difficulty of suspecting such 
a lurking paradise from the high road through Grasmere, 
at every point of which the little hilly partition crowds 
up into one mass with the capital barriers in the rear, 
seeming, in fact, not so much to blend with them as to be 
a part of them, may account for the fortunate neglect of 
Easedale in the tourist's route; and also because there 
is no one separate object, such as a lake or a splendid 
cataract, to bribe the interest of those who are hunting 
after sights; for the "force" is comparatively smaU, and 
the tarn is beyond the limits of the vale, as well as difficult 
of approach. 

. One other circumstance there is about Easedale^ which 
completes its demarcation, and makes it as entirely a land- 
locked little park, within a ring-fence of mountains, as 
ever human art; 'f rendered capable of dealing with moun- 



220 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

tains and tlieir arrangement, could have contrived. The 
sole approach, as I have mentioned, is from Grasmere; 
and some one outlet there must inevitably be in every vale 
that can be interesting to a human occupant, since Avithout 
water it would not be habitable ; and running water must 
force an exit for itself, and, consequently, an inlet for the 
world; but, properly speaking, there is no other. For, 
when you explore the remoter end of the vale, at which 
you suspect some communication with the world outside, 
you find before you a most formidable amount of climbing, 
the extent of which can hardly be measured where there 
is no solitary object of human workmanship or vestige of 
animal life, not a sheep-track even, not a shepherd's hovel, 
but rock and heath, heath and rock, tossed about in monoto- 
nous confusion. And, after the ascent is mastered, you 
descend into a second vale, — long, narrow, sterile, known 
by the name of "Far Easedale," — from which point, if 
you could drive a tunnel below the everlasting hills, per- 
haps six or seven miles might bring you to the nearest 
habitation of man, in Borrowdale ; but, crossing the moun- 
tains, the road cannot be less than twelve or fourteen, and, 
in point of fatigue, at the least twenty. This long valley, 
which is really terrific at noonday, from its utter loneli- 
ness and desolation, completes the defences of little sylvan 
Easedale. There is one door into it from the Grasmere 
side ; but that door is hidden ; and on every other quarter 
there is no door at all, nor any, the roughest, access, -but 
what would demand a day's walking. 

Such is the solitude — so deep, so seventimes guarded, 
and so rich in miniature beauty — of Easedale; and in 
this solitude it was that George and Sarah Green, two 
poor and hard-working peasants, dwelt, with a numerous 
family of small children. Poor as they were, they had 
won the general respect of the neighborhood, from the 
uncomplaining firmness with which they bore the hard- 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 221 

eliips of their lot, and from tlie decent attire in wliicli the 
good mother of the family contrived to send out her chil- 
dren to the Grasmere school. It is a custom, and a very- 
ancient one, in Westmoreland, — and I have seen the same 
usage prevailing in Southern Scotland, — that any sale 
by auction, whether of cattle, of farming-produce, farming- 
stock, wood, or household furniture, — and seldom a fort- 
night passes without something of the sort, — forms an ex- 
cuse for the good women, throughout the whole circumfer- 
ence of perhaps a dozen valleys, to assemble at the place 
of sale, with the nominal purpose of aiding the sale, or of 
buying something they may happen to want. No doubt 
the real business of the sale attracts numbers ; although of 
late years, — that is, for the last twenty-five years, through 
which so many sales of furniture the most .expensive (has- 
tily made by casual settlers, on the wing for some fresher 
novelty), — have made this particular article almost a 
drug in the country; and the interest in such sales has 
greatly declined. But, in 1807, this fever of founding vil- 
las or cottages ornees was yet only beginning; and a sale, 
except it were of the sort exclusively interesting to fanning- 
men, was a kind of general intimation to the country, from 
the owner of the property, tliat he would, on that afternoon, 
be "at home" for all comers, and hoped to see as large 
an attendance as possible. Accordingly, it was the almost 
invariable custom — and often, tooj when the parties were 
far too poor for such an effort of hospitality — to make 
ample provision, not of eatables, but of liquor, for all who 
came. Even a gentleman, who should happen to present 
himself on such a festal occasion, by way of seeing the 
"humors" of the scene, was certain of meeting the most 
cordial welcome. The good woman of the house more 
particularly testified her sense of the honor done to her 
house, and was sure to seek out some cherished and soli- 
tary article of china, — a wreck from a century back,— 



222 THOMAS DE QUINCEY 

in order that lie, being a porcelain man amongst so many 
delf men and women, might have a porcelain cup to drink 
from. 

The main secret of attraction at these sales — many a 
score of which I have attended — was the social rendez- 
vous thus effected between parties so remote from each 
other {either by real distance, or by the virtual distance 
which results from a separation by difficult tracts of hilly 
country), that, m fact, without some such common object 
and oftentimes something like a bisection of the interval 
between them, they would not be hkely to hear of each 
other for months, or actually to meet for years. This 
principal charm of the " gathering," seasoned, doubtless, to 
many by the certain anticipation that the whole budget of 
rural scandal would then and there be opened, was not 
assuredly diminished to the men by the anticipation of 
excellent ale (usually brewed six or seven weeks before, 
in preparation for the event), and possibly of still more 
excellent pow-sowdy (a combination of ale, spirits, and 
spices) ; nor to the women by some prospect, not so inev- 
itably fulfilled, but pretty certain in a liberal house, of 
communicating their news over excellent tea. Even the 
auctioneer was always "part and parcel" of the mirth: 
he was always a rustic old humorist, a " character," and a 
jovial drunkard, privileged in certain good-humored liber- 
ties and jokes with all bidders, gentle or simple, and fur- 
nished with an ancient inheritance of jests appropriate to 
the articles offered for sale, — jests that had, doubtless, done 
tlieir office from Elizabeth's golden days ; but no more, on 
that account, failed of their expected effect, with either 
man or woman of this nineteenth century, than the sun 
fails to gladden the heart because it is that same old obso- 
lete sun that has gladdened it for thousands of years. 

One thing, however, in mere justice to the poor indige- 
nous Dalesmen of Westmoreland and Cumberland, I am 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 223 

bound, in this place, to record, that, often as I have been at 
these sales, and through many a year before even a scat- 
tering of gentry began to attend, yet so true to the natural 
standard of politeness was the decorum uniformly main- 
tained, even the old buffoon (as sometimes he was) of an 
auctioneer never forgot himself so far as to found upon any 
article of furniture a jest that could have called up a pain- 
ful blush in any woman's face. He might, perhaps, go so 
far as to awaken a little rosy confusion upon some young 
bride's countenance, when pressing a cradle upon her at- 
tention : but never did I hear him utter, nor would he have 
been tolerated in uttering, a scurrilous or disgusting jest, 
such as might easily have been suggested by something 
offered at a household sale. Such jests as these I heard 
for the first time at a sale in Grasmere in 1814, and, I am 
ashamed to say it, from some " gentlemen " of a great city. 
And it grieved me to see the effect, as it expressed it- 
self upon the manly faces of the grave Dalesmen, — a 
sense of insult offered to their women, who met in confid- 
ing reliance upon the forbearance of the men, and upon 
their regard for the dignity of the female sex, this feeling 
strugglmg with the habitual respect they are inclined ta 
show towards what they suppose gentle blood and supe- 
rior education. Taken generally, however, these were the 
most picturesque and festal meetings which the manners 
of the country produced. There you saw all ages and 
both sexes assembled ; there you saw old men whose heads 
would have been studies for Guido; there you saw the 
most colossal and stately figures amongst the young men 
that England has to show ; there the most beautiful young: 
women. There it was that sometimes I saw a lovelier face 
than ever I shall see again : there it was that local pecu- 
liarities of usage or of language were best to be studied ; 
there — at least in the earher years of my residence in 
that district — that the social benevolence, the grave wis- 



224 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

dom, the innocent mirth, and the neighborly kindness of 
the people, most delightfully expanded, and expressed them- 
selves with the least reserve. 

To such a scene it was, to a sale of domestic furniture 
at the house of some proprietor on the point of giving up 
housekeeping, perhaps in order to live with a married son 
or daughter, that George and Sarah Green set forward in 
the forenoon of a day fated to be their last on earth. The 
sale was to take place in Langdale Head ; to which, from 
their own cottage in Easedale, it was possible in daylight, ' 
and supposing no mist upon the hills, to find out a short cut 
of not more than eight miles. By this route they went ; and 
notwithstanding the snow lay on the ground, they reached 
their destination in safety. The attendance at the sale must 
have been diminished by the rigorous state of the weather ; 
but still the scene Avas a gay one as usual. Sarah Green, 
though a good and worthy woman in her maturer years, had 
been imprudent, — and, as the tender consideration of the 
country is apt to express it, — " unfortunate " in her youth. 
She had an elder daughter, and I believe the father of this 
girl was dead. The girl herself was grown up ; and the 
peculiar solicitude of poor Sarah's maternal heart was at 
this time called forth on her behalf: she wished to see her 
placed in a very respectable house, where the mistress was 
distinguished for her notable qualities and her success in 
forming good servants. This object — so important to Sarah 
Green in the narrow range of her cares, as in a more ex- 
alted family it might be to obtain a ship for a lieutenant 
that had passed as master and commander, or to get him 
"posted" — occupied her almost throughout the sale. A 
doubtful answer had been given to her application; and 
Sarah was going about the crowd, and weaving her person 
in and out in order to lay hold of this or that intercessor 
who might have, or might seem to have, some weight with 
the principal person concerned. 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 225 

This was the last occupation which is known to have 
stirred the pulses of her heart. An illegitimate child is 
everywhere, even in the indulgent society of Westmore- 
land Dalesmen, under some shade of discountenance ; so 
that Sarah Green might consider her duty to be the stronger 
toward the child of her " misfortune." And she probably 
had another reason for her anxiety — as some words dropped 
by her on this evening led people to presume — in her con- 
scientious desire to introduce her daughter into a situation 
less perilous than that which had compassed her own youth- 
ful steps with snares. If so, it is painful to know that the 
virtuous wish, whose 

" vital warmth 
Gave the last human motion to the heart/' 

should not have been fulfilled. She was a woman of ardent 
and affectionate spirit, of which Miss Wordsworth's memoir, 
or else her subsequent memorials in conversation, (I forget 
which,) gave some circumstantial and affecting instances, 
which I cannot now recall with accuracy. This ardor it was, 
and her impassioned manner, that drew attention to what 
she did ; for, otherwise, she was too poor a person to be 
important in the estimation of strangers, and, of all possible 
situations, to be important at a sale, where the public atten- 
tion was naturally fixed upon the chief purchasers, and the 
attention of the purchasers upon the chief competitors. Hence 
it happened that, after she ceased to challenge notice by the 
emphasis of her solicitations for her daughter, she ceased 
to be noticed at all ; and nothing was recollected of her sub- 
sequent behavior until the time arrived for general separa- 
tion. This time was considerably after sunset ; and the 
final recollections of the crowd with respect to George and 
Sarah Green were, that, upon their intention being under- 
stood to retrace their morning path, and to attempt the 
perilous task of dropping down into Easedale from the 
mountains above Langdale Head,, a sound of remonstrance 
15 



226 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

■ f ■ ' 

arose from many quarters. However, at a moment wlien 
everybody was in the liurry of departure, — and, to persons 
of their mature age, the opposition could not be very ob- 
stinate, — party after party rode off; the meeting melted 
away, or, as the Northern phrase is, scaled ; and at length 
nobody was left of any weight that could pretend to influ- 
ence the decision of elderly people. They quitted the scene, 
professing to obey some advice or other upon the choice of 
roads ; but, at as early a point as they could do so unob- 
sei-ved, began to ascend the liills, everywdiere open from the 
rude carriage-way. After this, they were seen no more. 
They had disappeared into the cloud of death. Voices were 
heard, some hours afterwards, from the mountains, — voices, 
as some thought, of alarm; others said, no, — that it was 
only the voices of jovial people, carried by the wind into un- 
certain regions. The result was, that no attention was paid 
to the sounds. 

That night, in little peaceful Easedale, six children sat 
by a peat fire, expecting the return of their parents, upon 
whom they depended for their daily bread. Let a day 
pass, and they were starved. Every sound was heard with 
anxiety; for all this w^as reported many a hundred times 
to JMiss "Wordsworth, and those who, like myself, were 
never wearied of hearing the details. Every sound, every 
echo amongst the liills was listened to for five hours, — from 
seven to twelve. At length, the eldest girl of the family -^ 
about nine years old — told her little brothers and sisters to 
go to bed. They had been taught obedience ; and all of them, 
at the voice of their eldest sister, went off fearfully to their 
beds. What could be their fears, it is difficult to say ! they 
had no knowledge to instruct them in the dangers of the 
hills ; but the eldest sister always averred that they had a 
deep solicitude, as she herself had, about their parents. 
Doubtless she had communicated her fears to them. Some 
time in the course of the evening, — but it was late and 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 227 

after mldniglit, — the moon arose, and shed a torrent of light 
upon the Langdale fells, which had already, long hours be- 
fore, witnessed in darkness the death of their parents. It 
may be well here to cite Mr. Wordsworth's stanzas : — 

" Who weeps for strangers 1 Many wept 
For George and Sarah Green ; 
Wept for that pair's unhappy fate, 
Whose graves may here be seen. 

"By night, upon these stormy fells, 
Did wife and husband roam ; 
Six little ones at home had left, 
And could not find that home. 

" For any dwelling-place of man 
As vainly did they seek. 
He perished ; and a voice was heard — 
The widow's lonely shriek. 

" Not many steps, and she was left 
A body without life, — 
A few short steps were the chain that bound 
The husband to the wife. 

" Now do these sternly-featured hills. 
Look gently on this grave ; 
And quiet now are the depths of air, 
As a sea without a wave. 

" But deeper lies the heart of peace 
In quiet more profound ; 
The heart of quietness is here 
Within this churchyard bound- 

« And from all agony of mind 
It keeps them safe, and far 
Prom fear and grief, and from aU need 
Of sun or guiding star. 

" darkness of the grave ! how deep, 
After that living night, — 
That last and dreary living one 
Of sorrow and affi-ight ! 



228 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

" sacred marriage-becl of death, 
That keeps them side by side 
In bond of peace, in bond of love, 
That may not be untied ! " 

That niglit, and the following morning, came a further 
and a heavier fall of snow ; in consequence of wliich the 
jjoor children were completely imprisoned, and cut off from 
all possibility of communicating with their next neighbors. 
The brook was too much for them to leap ; and the little 
crazy Wooden bridge could not be crossed, or even ap- 
proached with safety, from the drifting of the snow having 
made it impossible to ascertain the exact situation of some 
treacherous hole in its timbers, which, if trod upon, would 
have let a small child drop through into the rapid waters. 
Their parents did not return. For some hours of the morn- 
ing the children clung to the hope that the extreme severity 
of the night had tempted them to sleep in Langdale ; but 
this hope forsook them as the day wore away. Their father, 
George Green, had served as a soldier, and was an active 
man, of ready resources, who ' would not, under any cir- 
cumstances, have failed to force a road back to his family, 
had he been still living ; and this reflection, or rather semi- 
conscious feeling, which the a^vfulness of their situation 
forced upon the minds of all but the mere infants, taught 
them to feel the extremity of their danger. Wonderful it is 
to see the effect of sudden misery, sudden grief, or sudden 
lear, (where they do not utterly upset the faculties,) in 
sharpening the intellectual perceptions. Instances must 
have fallen in the way of most of us. And I have noticed 
frequently that even sudden and intense bodily pain is part 
of the machinery employed by nature for quickening the 
development of the mind. The perceptions of infants are 
not, in fact, excited gradatim and continuously, but per 
saltum, and by unequal starts. At least, in the case of my 
own children, one and all, I have remarked, that, after any 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 229 

very severe fit of tliose peculiar pains to wliich the delicate 
digestive organs of most infants are liable, there always 
become apparent on the following day a very considerable 
increase of vital energy and of vivacious attention to the ob- 
jects around them. The poor desolate children of Blentarn 
Ghyll, hourly becoming more ruefully convinced that they 
were orphans, gave many evidences of this awaking power, 
as lodged by a providential arrangement, in situations of 
trial that most require it. They huddled together, in the 
evening, round their hearth-fire of peats, and held their little 
councils upon what was to be done towards any chance — 
if chance remained — of yet giving aid to their parents ; 
for a slender hope had sprung up that some hovel or sheep- 
fold might have furnished them a screen (or, in Westmore- 
land phrase, a hield) against the weather-quarter of the 
storm, in which hovel they might be lying disabled or 
snowed up ; and secondly, as regarded themselves, in what 
'vvay they were to make known their situation, in case the 
snow should continue or increase ; for starvation stared them 
in the face, if they should be confined for many days to their 
house. 

Meantime, the eldest sister, little Agnes, though sadly 
alarmed, and feeling the sensation of eariness as twilight 
came on, and she looked out from the cottage door to the 
dreadful fells, on which, too probably, her parents were 
lying corpses, (and possibly not many hundred yards from 
their own threshold,) yet exerted herself to take all the 
measures which their own prospects made prudent. And 
she told Miss Wordsworth, that, in the midst of the oppres- 
sion on her little spirit, from vague ghostly terrors, she did 
not fail, however, to draw some comfort from the considera- 
tion, that the very same causes which produced their danger 
in one direction, sheltered them from danger of another 
kind, — such dangers as she knew, from books that she had 
read, would have threatened a little desolate flock of children 



230 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

in other parts of England ; tliat, if they ooiild not get out 
into Grasmere, on the other hand, bad men, and wild seafar- 
ing foreigners, who sometimes passed along the high road 
in that vale, could not get to them ; and that, as to their 
neighbors, so far from having anything to fear in that 
quarter, their greatest apprehension was lest they might not 
be able to acquaint them with their situation ; but that, if 
that could be accomplished, the very sternest amongst them 
were kind-hearted people, that would contend with each 
other for the privilege of assisting them. Somewhat cheered 
with these thoughts, and having caused all her brothers and 
sisters — except the two little things, not yet of a fit age — 
to kneel down and say the prayers which they had been 
taught, this admirable little maiden turned herself to every 
household task that could have proved useful to them in a 
long captivity. First of all, upon some recollection that the 
clock was nearly going down, she wound it up. Next, she 
took all the milk which remained from what her mother had 
provided for the children's consumption during her absence, 
and for the breakfast of the following morning, ■ — this luck- 
ily was still in sufficient plenty for two days' consumption, 
(skimmed or " blue " milk being only one half-penny a quart, 
and the quart a most redundant one, in Grasmere,) — this 
she took and scalded, so as to save it from turning sour. 
That done, she next examined the m.eal-chest ; made the 
common oatmeal porridge of the country (the burgoo of the 
royal navy) ; but put all of the children, except the two 
youngest, on short allowance ; and, by way of reconciling 
them in some measure to this stinted meal, she found out a 
little hoard of flour, part of which she baked for them upon 
the hearth into little cakes ; and this unusual delicacy per- 
suaded them to think that they had been celebrating a feast. 
Next, before night coming on should make it too trying to 
her own feelings, or before fresh snow coming on might make 
it impossible, she issued out of doors. There her first task 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTKOPHE. 231 

was, with tlie assistance of two younger brothers, to carry 
in from the peat-stack as many peats as might serve them for 
a week's consumption. That done, in the second place, she 
examined the potatoes, buried in " brackens " (that is, with- 
ered fern) : these were not many ; and she- thought it better 
to leave them where they were, excepting as many as would 
make a single meal, under a fear that the heat of their cot- 
tage would spoil them, if removed. 

Having thus made all the provision in her power for 
supporting their own lives, she turned her attention to the 
cow. Her she milked ; but, unfortunately the milk she 
gave, either from being badly fed, or from some other cause, 
Avas too trifling to be of much consideration towards the 
wants of a large family. Here, however, her chief anxiety 
was to get down the hay for the cow's food frona a loft above 
the outhouse ; and in this she succeeded but imperfectly, 
from want of strength and size to cope with the difficulties 
of the case ; besides that the increasing darkness by this 
time, together with the gloom of the place, made it a matter 
of great self-conquest for her to work at all ; and, as re- 
spected one night at any rate, she placed the cow in a situa- 
tion of luxurious warmth and comfort. Then retreatino- 

o 

into the warm house, and " barring " the door, she sat down 
to undress the two youngest of the children ; them she laid 
carefully and cosily in their little nests up-stairs, and sang 
them to sleep. The rest she kept up to bear her company 
until the clock should tell them it was midnight; up to 
which time she had still a lingering hope that some welcome 
shout from the hills above, which they were all to strain 
their ears to catch, might yet assure them that they were 
not wholly orphans, even though one parent should have 
perished. No shout, it may be supposed, was ever heard \ 
nor could a shout, in any case, have been heard, for the 
night was one of tumultuous wind. And though, amidst its 
ravings, sometimes they fancied a sound of voices, still, in 



232 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

the dead lulls that now and then succeeded, they heai^d 
notliing to confirm their hopes. As last services to what she 
might now have called her own little family, Agnes took 
precautions against the drifting of the snow within the door 
and the imperfect window which had caused them some dis- 
comfort on the preceding day ; and, finally, she adopted the 
most systematic and elaborate plans for preventing the pos- 
sibility of their fire being extinguished, which, in the event 
of their being thro\\^i upon the ultimate resource of their 
potatoes, would be absolutely (and in any event nearty) in- 
dispensable to their existence. 

The night slipped away, and another morning came, 
bringing with it no better hopes of any kind. Change there 
had been none but for the worse. The snow had greatly 
increased in quantity ; and the drifts seemed far more for- 
midable. A second day passed like the first ; little Agnes 
still keeping her little flock quiet, and tolerably comfortable ; 
and still calling on all the elders in succession to say their 
prayers, morning and night. 

A third day came ; and whether it was on that or on 
the fourth, I do not now recollect ; but on one or other there 
came a welcome gleam of hope. The arrangement of the 
snow-drifts had shifted during the night ; and though the 
•wooden bridge was still impracticable, a low wall had been 
exposed, over which, by a very considerable circuit, and 
crossing the low shoulder of a hill, it seemed possible that a 
road might be found into Grasmere. In some walls it was 
necessary to force gaps ; but this was effected without much 
difiiculty, even by children, for the Westmoreland walls are 
always "open," that is, uncemented with mortar, and the 
push of a stick will readily detach so much from the upper 
part of an old crazy field wall, as to lower it sufficiently for 
female or for childish steps to pass. The little boys accom- 
panied their sister until she came to the other side of the 
hill, which, lying more sheltered from the weather, and to 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 233 

windward, offered a path onwards comparatively (Misy. Here 
they parted ; and little Agnes pursued her solitary mission 
to the nearest house she could find accessible in Grasmere. 

No house could have proved a wrong one in svTch a case. 
IMiss Wordsworth and I often heard the description renewed 
of the horror which, in an instant, displaced the smile of 
hospitable greeting, when little weeping Agnes told her sad 
tale. ISTo tongue can express the fervid sympathy which 
travelled through the vale, like the fire in an American 
forest, when it was learned that neither George nor Sarah 
Green had been seen by their children since the day of the 
Langdale sale. Within half an hour, or little more, from 
the remotest parts of the valley, — some of them distant 
nearly two miles from the point of rendezvous, — all the 
men of Grasmere had assembled at the little cluster of cot- 
tages called " Kirktown," from their adjacency to the vener- 
able parish clmrch of St. Oswald. There were at the time 
I settled in Grasmere (viz. in the spring of 1809, and, 
therefore, I suppose at this time, fifteen months previously) 
about sixty-three households in the vale, and tlie total num- 
ber of souls was about two hundred and sixty-five ; so that 
the number of fighting men would be about sixty or sixty- 
six, according to the common way of computing the propor- 
tion ; and the majority were so athletic and powerfully built, 
that, at the village games of wi^estling and leaping, Pro- 
fessor Wilson, and some visitors of his and mine, scarcely 
one of whom was under five feet eleven in height, with pro- 
portionable breadth, seem but middle-sized men amongst the 
towering forms of the Dalesmen. Sixty at least, after a 
short consultation as to the plan of operations, and for 
arranging the kind of signals by which they were to com- 
municate from great distances, and in the perilous events of 
mists or snow-storms, set off, mth the speed of Alpine hun- 
ters, to the hills. The dangers of the undertaking were 
considerable, under the uneasy and agitated state of the 



234 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

weather ; and all the women of the vale were in the greatest 
anxiety, until night brought them back, in a body, unsuc- 
cessful. Three days at the least, and I rather think five, 
the search was ineffectual ; which arose partly from the 
great extent of the ground to be examined, and partly from 
the natural mistake made of ranging almost exclusively on 
the earlier days on that part of the hills over which the path 
of Easedale might be presumed to have been selected under 
any reasonable latitude of circuitousness. But the fact is, 
when the fatal accident (for such it has often proved) of a 
permanent mist surprises a man on the hills, if he turns and 
loses his direction, he is a lost man ; and without doing this 
so as to lose the power of s'orienter in one instant, it is well 
known how difficult it is to avoid losing it insensibly and by 
degrees. Baffling snow-showers are the worst kind of mists. 
And the poor Greens had, under that kind of confusion, 
wandered many a mile out of their proper track. 

The zeal of the people, meantime, was not in the least 
abated, but rather quickened, by the wearisome disappoint- 
ments ; every hour of daylight was turned to account ; no 
man of the valley ever came home to dinner ; and the reply 
of a young shoemaker, on the fourth night's return, speaks 
sufficiently for the unabated spirit of the vale. Miss Words- 
worth asked what he would do on the next morning. " Go 
up again, of course," was his answer. But what if to-mor- 
row also should turn out like all the rest ? " Why, go up in 
stronger force on the next day." Yet this man was sacri- 
ficing his own daily earnings without a chance of recom- 
pense. At length sagacious dogs were taken up ; and, 
about noonday, a shout from an aerial height, amongst thick 
volumes of cloudy vapor, propagated through repeating bands 
of men from a distance of many miles, conveyed as by tele- 
graph the news that the bodies were found. George Green 
was found lying at the bottom of a precipice, from which he 
had fallen. Sarah Green was found on the summit of the 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTROPHE. 235 

precipice ; and, by laying together all the indications of 
what had passed, the sad hieroglyphics of their last agonies, 
it was conjectured that the husband had desii-ed his wife to 
pause for a few minutes, wrapping her, meantime, in his own 
great-coat, whilst he should go forward and reconnoitre the 
ground, in order to catch a sight of some object (rocky peak, 
or tarn, or peat-field) which might ascertain their real situa- 
tion. Either the snow above, already lying in drifts, or the 
blinding snow-storms driving into his eyes, must have misled 
him as to the nature of the circumjacent ground ; for the 
j)recipice oyer which he had fallen Avas but a few yards from 
the spot in wliich he had quitted his wife. The depth of 
the descent, and the fury of the wind (almost always violent 
on these cloudy altitudes), would prevent any distinct com- 
munication between the dying husband below and his de- 
spairing wife above ; but it was beheved by the shepherds 
best acquainted with the ground and the range of sound as 
regarded the capacities of the human ear, under the proba- 
ble circumstances of the storm, that Sarah might have 
caught, at intervals, the groans of her unhappy partner, sup- 
posing that his death were at all a lingering one. Others, 
on the contrary, supposed her to have gathered this catas- 
trophe rather from the want of any sounds, and from his 
continued absence, than from any one distinct or positive 
expression of it ; both because the smooth and unruffled 
surface of the snow where he lay seemed to argue that he 
had died without a struggle, perhaps without a groan, and 
because that tremendous sound of " hurtling " in the upper 
chambers of the air, which often accompanies a snow-storm, 
when combined with heavy gales of wind, would utterly 
oppress and stifle (as they conceived) any sounds so feeble 
as those from a dying man. In any case, and by whatever 
sad language of sounds or signs, positive or negative, she 
might have learned or guessed her loss, it was generally 
aojreed that the wild shrieks heard towards midnight in 



236 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

Langdale Head announced the agonizing moment whidi 
brought to her now widowed heart the conviction of utter 
desolation and of final abandonment to her own fast-fleeting 
energies. It seemed probable that the sudden disappear- 
ance of her husband from her pursuing eyes would teach her 
to understand his fate, and that the consequent indefinite 
apprehension of instant death lying all around the point on 
which she sat had kept her stationary to the very attitude 
in which her husband left her, until her failing powers and 
the increasing bitterness of the cold, to one no longer in 
motion, would soon make those changes of place impossible, 
which, at any rate, had appeared too dangerous. The foot- 
steps in some places, wherever drifting had not obliterated 
them, yet traceable as to the outline, though partially filled 
up with later falls of snow, satisfactorily showed that, how- 
ever much they might have rambled, after crossing and 
doubling upon their own paths, and many a mile astray 
from their right , track, still they must have kept together to 
the very plateau or shelf of rock at which their wanderings 
had terminated ; for there were evidently no steps from this 
plateau in the retrograde order. 

By the time they had reached this final stage of their 
erroneous course, all possibility of escape must have been 
lono; over for both alike : because their exhaustion must 
have been excessive before they could have reached a point 
so remote and liigh ; and, unfortunately, the direct result of 
all this exhaustion had been to throw them farther off" their 
home, or from " any dwelling-place of man," than they were 
at starting. Here, therefore, at this rocky pinnacle, hope 
was extinct for either party. But it was the impression of 
the vale, that, perhaps within half an hour before reaching 
this fatal point, George Green might, had his conscience or 
his heart allowed him in so base a desertion, have saved 
himself singly, without any very great difficulty. It is to be 
hoped, however, — and, for my part, I think too well of 



A mou:ntain catastrophe. 237 

Imman nature to hesitate in believing, — that not many, 
even amongst the meaner-minded and the least generous of 
men, could have reconciled themselves to the abandonment 
of a poor fainting female companion in such circumstances. 
Still, though not more than a most imperative duty, it was 
one (I repeat) which most of his associates believed to have 
cost him (perhaps consciously) his life. For his wife not 
only must have disabled him greatly by clinging to liis arm 
for support ;* but it was known, from her peculiar charactei 
and manner, that she would be likely to rob him of liis 
coolness and presence of mind by too painfully fixing liis 
thoughts, where her own would be busiest, upon their help- 
less little family. " Stung with the thoughts of home," — to 
borrow the fine expression of Thomson in describing a sim- 
ilar case, — alternately thinking of the blessedness of that 
warm fireside at Blentarn Gliyll, which was not again to 
spread its genial glow through her freezing limbs, and of 
those darling little faces wliich, in this world, she was to see 
no more ; unintentionally, and without being aware even of 
that result, she would rob the brave man (for such he was) 
of his fortitude, and the strong man of his animal resources. 
And yet, — (such in the very opposite direction, was equally 
the impression universally through Grasmere,) — had Sarah 
Green foreseen, could her affectionate heart have guessed 
even i}\Q tenth pai't of that love and neighborly respect for 
herself which soon afterwards expressed themselves in show- 
ers of bounty to her chikben ; could she have looked behind 
the curtain of destiny sufficiently to learn that Uie very des- 
olation of these poor children wliich wrung her maternal 
heart, and doubtless constituted to her the sting of death, 
would prove the signal and the pledge of such anxious 
guardianship as not many rich men's cliildren receive, and 
that this overflowing offering to her own memory would not 
be a hasty or decaying tribute of the first sorrowing sensi- 
bilities, but would pursue her children steadily until their 



238 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

hopeful settlement in life, — or anything approachi/ig this, 
to have known or have guessed, would have caused her (as 
all said who knew her) to welcome the bitter end by which 
such privileges were to be purchased. 

The funeral of the ill-fated Greens was, it may be sup- 
posed, attended by all the vale ; it took place about eight 
days after they were found ; and the day happened to be in 
the most perfect contrast to the sort of weather which pre- 
vailed at the time of their misfortune : some snow still 
remained here and there upon the ground ; but the azure of 
the sky was unstained by a cloud, and a golden sunlight 
seemed to sleep, so balmy and tranquil was the season, upon 
the very hills where they had wandered, — then a howling 
wilderness, but now a green pastoral lawn, in its lower 
ranges, and a glittering expanse, smooth, apparently, and 
not difficult to the footing, of virgin snow, in its higher. 
George Green had, I believe, an elder family by a foraier 
wife ; and it was for some of these children, who lived at a 
distance, and who wished to give their attendance at the 
grave, that the funeral was delayed. After this solemn 
ceremony was over, — at which, by the way, I then heaixl 
Miss Wordsworth say that the grief of Sai'ah's illegitimate 
daughter was the most overwhelming she had ever wit- 
nessed, — a regular distribution of the children was made 
amongst the wealthier families of the vale. There had 
already^ and before the funeral, been a perfect struggle to 
obtain one of the children, amongst all who had any facili- 
ties for dischargmg the duties of such a trust ; and even the 
poorest had put in their claim to bear some part in the 
expenses of the case. But it was judiciously decided that 
none of the cliildren should be intrasted to any persons who 
seemed likely, either from old age or from slender means, or 
from nearer and more personal responsibihties, to be under 
the necessity of devolving the trust, sooner or later, upon 
strangers, who might have none of that interest in the chil- 



A MOUNTAIN CATASTEOPHE. 230 

dren wliich attaclied, in their mifids, the Grasmere people to 
the circumstances that made them orphans. Two twins, 
who had naturally played together and slept together from 
their birth, passed into the same family: the others were 
dispersed ; but into such kind-hearted and intelligent fami- 
lies, with continued opportunities of meeting each other on 
errands, or at church, or at sales, that it was hard to say 
wdiich had the happier fate. And thus in so brief a period 
as one fortnight, a household that, by health and strength, 
by the humility of poverty, and by innocence of life, seemed 
sheltered from all attacks but those of tune, came to be 
utterly broken up. George and Sarah Green slept in Gras- 
mere churchyard, never more to know the want of " sun or 
guiding star." Their children were scattered over wealtliier 
houses than those of their poor parents, through the vales of 
Grasmere or Rydal ; and Blentarn Ghyll, after being shut 
up for a season, and ceasing for months to send up its little 
slender column of smoke at morning and evening, finally 
passed into the hands of a stranger. 



THRENODY. 

By RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

THE South- wind brings 
Life, sunshine, and desire, 
And on every mount and meadow 
Breathes aromatic fire ; 
But over the dead he has no power, 
The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; 
And, looking over the hills, I mourn 
The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house, 

I see my trees repair their boughs ; 

And he, the wondrous child. 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round, — 

The hyacinthine boy, for whom 

Morn well might break and April bloom, 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born, . 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day, — 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 

Far and wide she cannot find him ; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 



THRENODY. 241 

Returned this day, the South-wind searches, 
And finds young pines and budding birches ; 
But finds not the budding man ; 
Nature, who lost, cannot remake liim ; 
Fate let him fall. Fate can't retake him ; 
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vaiii. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 

O, whither tend thy feet ? 

I had the right, few days ago. 

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; 

How have I forfeited the right ? 

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 

I hearken for thy household cheer, 

O eloquent child ! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger, 

Conveyed thy meaning mild. 

What though the paras and joys 

Whereof it spoke were toys 

Fitting his age and ken. 

Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 

Who heard the sweet request, 

So gentle, wise, and grave. 

Bended with joy to his behest, 

And let the world's affairs go by, 

Awhile to share his cordial game. 

Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, 

Still plotting how their hungry ear 

That winsome voice again might hear ; 

For his lips could well pronounce 

Words that were persuasions. 

Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
16 



242 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



Took counsel from Ms guiding ejes 
To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival, 
When every morn my bosom glowed 
To watch the convoy on the road ; 
The babe in willow wagon closed, 
With rolling eyes and face composed ; 
With childi-en forward and behind, 
Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 
And he the chieftain paced beside, 
The centre of the troop allied. 
With sunny face of sweet repose, 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 
Took the eye with him as he went ; 
Each village senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the window I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade. 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by fairies played ; — 
A music heard by thee alone 
To works as noble led thee on. 

Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, 
Up and down their glances strain. 
The painted sled stands where it stood ; 
The kennel by the corded wood ; 
The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 
Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall 
The ominous hole he dug in the sand. 
And childhood's castles built or planned ; 
His daily haunts I well discern, — 
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn, — 



THRENODY. 243 

And every incli of garden ground 

Paced by the blessed feet around, 

From the roadside to the brook 

Whereinto he loved to look. 

Step the meek birds where erst they ranged ; 

The wintry garden lies unchanged ; 

The brook into the stream runs on ; 

But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 

On that shaded day, 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are, 

When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 

In bird-like heavings unto death, 

Night came, and Nature had not thee ; 

I said, " We are mates in misery." 

The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 

Each snow-bird chirped, each fowl must crow ; 

Each tramper started ; but the feet 

Of the most beautiful and sweet 

Of human youth had left the hill 

And garden, — they were bound and still. 

There 's not a sparrow or a wren, 

There 's not a blade of autumn grain, 

Which the four seasons do not tend, 

And tides of life and increase lend ; 

And every chick of every bird. 

And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 

O ostrich-like forgetfulness ! 

O loss of larger in the less ! 

Was there no star that could be sent. 

No watcher in the firmament. 

No angel from the countless host 

That loiters roimd the crystal coast, 

Could stoop to heal that only child, 

Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, 

And keep the blossom of the earth, 

Which all her harvests were not worth ? 



244 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Not mine, — ■ I never call thee mine. 

But Nature's heir, — if I repine, 

And seemg rashlj torn and moved 

Not what I made, but what I loved, 

Grow early old with grief that thou 

Must to the wastes of Nature go, — 

'T is because a general hope 

Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope. 

For flattering planets seemed to say 

This cliild should ills of ages stay, 

By wondrous tongue, and guided pen, 

Bring the flown Muses back to men. 

Perchance not he but Nature ailed, 

The world and not the infant failed. 

It was not ripe yet to sustain 

A genius of so fine a strain, 

Who gazed upon the sun and moon 

As if he came unto liis own. 

And, pregnant with his grander thought, 

Brought the old order into doubt. 

His beauty once their beauty tried ; 

They could not feed him, and he died. 

And wandered backward as in scorn. 

To wait an seon to be born. 

Bl day which made this beauty waste, 

Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 

Some went and came about the dead ; 

And some in books of solace read ; 

Some to theii' friends the tidings say ; 

Some went to write, some went to pray 

One tarried here, there hurried one ; 

But their heart abode with none. 

Covetous death bereaved us all. 

To aggrandize one funeral. 

The eager fate which carried thee 

Took the largest part of me : 



THRENODY. 245 

For tliis losing is true dying ; 
This is lordly man's down-lying, 
This his slow but sure reclining, 
Star by star his world resigning. 

child of paradise. 

Boy who made dear his father's home, 

In whose deep eyes 

Men read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 

The world dishonored thou hast left. 
truth's and nature's costly lie ! 
O trusted broken prophecy ! 
richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 

The deep Heart answered, " Weepest thou ? 

Worthier cause for passion wild 

If I had not taken the child. 

And deemest thou as those who pore, 

With aged eyes, short way before, — 

Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast 

Of matter, and thy darling lost ? 

Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 

"Whose eyes within liis eyes beheld 

Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 

The mystic gulf from God to man ? 

To be alone wilt thou begin 

When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 

To-morrow, when the masks shall fall 

That dizen Nature's carnival. 

The pure shall see by their own will. 

Which overflowing Love shall fill, 

'T is not within the force of fate 

The fate-conjoined to separate. 



246 RALPH WALDO EMEESON. 

But thou, my votary, weepest thou ? 

I gave thee sight — where is it now ? 

I taught thy heart beyond the reach 

Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; 

Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, 

As far as the incommunicable ; 

Taught thee each private sign to raise, 

Lit by the supersolar blaze. 

Past utterance, and past belief, 

And past the blasphemy of grief. 

The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 

And though no Muse can these impart, 

Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, 

And all is clear from east to west. 

" I came to thee as to a friend ; 
Dearest, to thee I did not send 
Tutors, but a joyful eye. 
Innocence that matched the sky. 
Lovely locks, a form of wonder. 
Laughter rich as woodland thunder. 
That thou might'st entertain apart 
The richest flowering of all art : 
And as the great all-loving Day 
Through smallest chambers takes its way, 
That thou might'st break thy daily bread 
With prophet, saviour, and head ; 
That thou might'st cherish for thine own 
The riches of sweet Mary's Son, 
. Boy-Rabbi, Israel's paragon. 
And thoughtest thou such guest 
Would in thy hall take up his rest ? 
Would rushing life forget her laws, 
Fate's glowing revolution pause ? 
High omens ask diviner guess -,. 
Not to be conned to tediousness. 



THEENODY. 247 

And know my higher gifts unbind 
The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 
When the scanty shores are full 
"With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; 
When frail Nature, can no more, 
Then the Spirit strikes the hour : 
My servant Death, with solving rite, 
Pours finite into infinite. 

" Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow, 

Whose streams through nature circling go ? 

Nail the wild star to its track 

On the half-climbed zodiac ? 

Light is light which radiates. 

Blood is blood which circulates. 

Life is life which generates. 

And many-seeming life is one, — 

Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 

Its onward force too starkly pent 

In figure, bone, and lineament ? 

Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, 

Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 

Nor see the genius of the whole 

Ascendant in the private soul. 

Beckon it when to go and come, 

Self-announced its hour of doom? 

Fair the soul's recess and shrine, 

Magic-built to last a season ; 

Masterpiece of love benign ; 

Fairer than expansive reason 

Whose omen 't is, and sign. 

Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 

What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? 

Verdict which accumulates 

From lengthening scroll of human fates, 



248 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Voice of earth to earth returned. 



Prayers of saints that inly burned, — « 
Saying, What is excellent, 
As God lives, is permanent ; 
Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain ; 
Hearts love will meet thee again, 
Eevere the Maker; fetch thine eye 
Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 
Not of adamant and gold 
Built he heaven stark and cold ; 
No, but a nest of bending reeds. 
Flowering grass, and scented weeds ; 
Or like a traveller's fleeing tent. 
Or bow above the tempest bent ; 
Built of tears and sacred flames. 
And virtue reaching to its aims ; 
Built of furtherance and pursuing, 
Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 
Silent rushes the swift Lord 
Through ruined systems still restored, 
Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, 
Plants with worlds the wilderness ; 
"Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 
House and tenant go to ground. 
Lost in God in Godhead found." 




?^y ^_>y 






LAST DAYS OF SIU WALTER SCOTT. 

By JOHN G. LOCKHART. 



THE last jotting of Sir "Walter's Diary — perhaps tlie 
last specimen of his handwriting — records his starting 
from Naples on the 16th of April, 1832. After the 11th 
of May the story can hardly be told too briefly. 

The irritation of impatience, which had for a moment 
been suspended by the aspect and society of Eome, re- 
turned the moment he found liimself on the road, and 
seemed to increase hourly. His companions could with 
difficulty prevail on him to see even the Falls of Terni, or 
the Church of Santa Croce, at Florence. On the 17th, a 
cold and dreary day, they passed the Apennines, and dined 
on the top of the mountains. The snow and the pines re- 
called Scotland, and he expressed pleasure at the sight of 
them. That night they reached Bologna, and he would 
see none of the interesting objects there, — and next day, 
hurrying in like manner through Ferrara, he proceeded 
as far as Monselice. On the 19th he arrived at Venice; 
and he remained there till the 23d; but showed no curi- 
osity about anything except the Bridge of Sighs and the 
adjoining dungeons, — down into which he would scramble, 
though the exertion was exceeding painful to him. On 
the other historical features of that place — one so sure in 
other days to have inexhaustible attractions for him — he 
would not even look ; and it was the same with all that he 



250 JOHN G. LOCKHAET. 

came within reach, of — even with the fondly anticipated 
chapel at Inspruck — as they proceeded through the Tyi^ol, 
and so onwards, by Munich, Ulm, and Heidelberg, to 
Frankfort. Here (June 5) he entered a bookseller's shop ; 
and the people seeing an English party, brought out 
among the first things a lithographed print of Abbotsford. 
He said, " I know that already, sir," and hastened back to 
the inn without being recognized. Though in some parts 
of the journey they had very severe weather, he repeat- 
edly wished to travel all the night as well as all the day ; 
and the symptoms of an approaching fit were so obvious, 
that he was more than once bled, ere they reached May- 
ence, by the hand of his affectionate domestic. 

At this town they embarked on the 8 th. June in the 
Rhine steamboat; and while they descended the famous 
river through its most picturesque region, he seemed to 
enjoy, though he said nothing, the perhaps unrivalled 
scenery it presented to him. His eye was fixed on the 
successive crags and castles, and ruined monasteries, each 
of which had been celebrated in solne German ballad fa- 
miliar to his ear, and all of them blended in the immortal 
panorama of Childe Harold. But so soon as he resumed 
his carriage at Cologne, and nothing but flat shores, and 
here and there a grove of poplars and a village spire were 
offered to the vision, the weight of misery sunk down again 
upon him. It was near Nimeguen, on the evenhig of the 
9th, that he sustained another serious attack of apoplexy, 
combined with paralysis. Nicolson's lancet restored, after 
the lapse of some minutes, the signs of animation ; but this 
was the crowning blow. Next day he insisted on resuming 
his journey, and on the 11th was lifted from the carriage 
into a steamboat at Rotterdam. 

He reached London about six o'clock on the evening of 
Wednesday the 13th of June. Owing to the unexpected 
rapidity of the journey his eldest daughter had had no 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 251 

notice when to expect him; and fearful of finding her 
either out of town, or unprepared to receive him and his 
attendants under her roof, Charles Scott drove to the St. 
James's hotel, in Jermyn Street, and established his q^ar- 
ters there before he set out in quest of his sister and myself. 
"When we reached the hotel, he recognized us with e\erj 
mark of tenderness, but signified that he was totally ex- 
hausted; so no attempt was made to remove him further, 
and he was put to bed immediately. Dr. Ferguson saw 
him the same night, and next day Sir Henry Halford and 
Dr. Holland saw him also; and during the next tlu-ee 
weeks the two former visited him daily, while Ferguson 
was scarcely absent from his pillow. The Major was soon 
on the spot.. To his children, all assembled once more 
about him, he repeatedly gave his blessing in a very solemn 
manner, as if expecting immediate death, but he was never 
in a condition for conversation, and sunk either into sleep 
or dehrious stupor upon the slightest effort. 

IMrs. Thomas Scott came to town as soon as she heard 
of his arrival, and remained to help us. She was more 
than once recognized and thanked. Mr. Cadell, too, ar- 
rived from Edinburgh, to render any assistance in his 
power. I think Sir Walter saw no other of his friends ex- 
cept Mr. John Richardson, and him only once. As usual, 
he woke up at the sound of a familiar voice, and made an 
attempt to put forth his hand, but it dropped powerless, and 
he said, with a smile, "Excuse my hand." Richardson 
made a struggle to suppress his emotion, and after a mo- 
ment, got out something about Abbotsford and the woods 
which he had happened to see shortly before. The eye 
brightened, and he said, "How does Kirklands get on?" 
Mr. Richardson had lately purchased the estate so called 
on the Teviot, and Sir Walter had left liim busied ^vith. 
plans of building. His friend told him that his new house 
was begun, and that the Marquis of Lothian had very 



252 JOHN G. LOCKHAET. 

kindly lent him one of his own, meantime, in its vicinity. 
" Ay, Lord Lothian is a good man," said Sir Walter ; " he 
is a man from whom one may receive a favor, and that 's 
saying a good deal for any man in these days." The stu- 
por then sank back upon him, and Richardson never heard 
his voice again. This state of things continued till the 
beginning of July. 

During those melancholy weeks great interest and sym- 
pathy were manifested. Allan Cunningham mentions that, 
walking home late one night, he found several working- 
men standing together at the corner of Jermyn Street, and 
one of them asked him, as if there was but one death-bed 
in London, " Do you know, sir, if this is the street where 
he is lying ? " The inquiries both at the hotel and at my 
house were incessant ; and I think there was hardly a mem- 
ber of the Royal family who did not send every day. The 
newspapers teemed with paragraphs about Sir Walter ; and 
one of these, it appears, threw out a suggestion that his 
travels had exhausted liis pecuniary resources, and that if 
he were capable of reflection at all, cares of that sort might 
probably harass his pillow. This paragraph came from a 
very ill-informed, but, I dare say, a well-meaning quarter. 
It caught the attention of some members of the then gov- 
ernment; and, in consequence, I received a private com- 
munication to the effect that, if the case were as stated, Sir 
Walter's family had only to say- what sum would relieve 
him from embarrassment, and it would be immediately 
advanced by the Treasury. The then Paymaster of the 
Forces, Lord John Russell, had the delicacy to convey this 
message through a lady with whose friendship he knew us 
to be honored. We expressed our grateful sense of his 
politeness, and of the liberality of the government, and I 
now beg leave to do so once more ; but his Lordship was 
of course informed that Sir Walter Scott was not situated 
as the journalist had represented. 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, 253 

Dr. Ferguson's memorandum on Jermyn Street will be 
acceptable to the reader. He says : — 

"Wlien I saw Sir Walter lie was lying in the second 
floor back-room of the St. James's Hotel, in Jermjn Street, 
in a state of stupor, from which, however, he could be 
roused for a moment by being addressed, and then he rec- 
ognized those about him, but immediately relapsed. I 
think I never saw anytliing more magnificent than the 
symmetry of his colossal bust, as he lay on the pillow with 
his chest and neck exposed. During the time he was m 
Jermyn Street he was calm, but never collected, and in 
general either in absolute stupor or in a waking dream. 
He never seemed to know where he was, but imagined 
himself to be still in the steamboat. The rattling of car- 
riages, and the noises of the street sometimes disturbed this 
illusion, and then he fancied himself at the polling-booth 
of Jedburgh, where he had been insulted and stoned. 

" During the whole of this period of apparent helpless- 
ness, the great features of his character could not be mis- 
taken. He always exhibited great self-possession, and 
acted his part with wonderful power whenever visited, 
though he relapsed the next moment into the stupor from 
which strange voices had roused him. A gentleman stum- 
bled over a chair in his dark room; — he immediately 
started up, and though unconscious that it was a friend, 
expressed as much concern and feeling as if he had never 
been laboring under the irritability of disease. It was im- 
possible even for those who most constantly saw and waited 
on him in his then deplorable condition to relax from the 
habitual deference which he had always inspired. He 
expressed his will as determinedly as ever, and enforced it 
with the same apt and good-natured irony as he was wont 
to use. 

" At length his constant yearning to return to Abbotsford 
induced his physicians to consent to his removal, and tha 



254 JOHN G. LOCKHAET. 

moment this was notified to liim, it seemed to infuse new 
vigor into his frame. It was on a calm, clear afternoon of 
the 7tli July, that every preparation was made for his 
embarkation on board the steamboat. He was placed on a 
chair by his faithful servant, Nicolson, half dressed, and 
loosely wrapped in a quilted dressing-gown. He requested 
Lockhart and myself to wheel him towards the light of the 
open window, and we both remarked the vigorous lustre of 
his eye. He sat there silently gazing on space for more 
than half an hour, apparently wholly occupied with his own 
thoughts, and having no distinct perception of where he 
was or how he came there. He suffered himself to be 
lifted into his carriage, which was surrounded by a crowd 
among whom were many gentlemen on horseback, who had 
loitered about to gaze on the scene. 

" His children were deeply affected, and Mrs. Lockhart 
trembled from head to foot and wept bitterly. Thus sur- 
rounded by those nearest to him, he alone was unconscious 
of the cause or the depth of their grief, and while yet alive 
seemed to be carried to his grave." 

On this his last journey. Sir "Walter was attended by liis 
two daughters, Mr. Cadell, and myself, and also by Dr. 
James "Watson, who (it being impossible for Dr. Ferguson 
to leave town at that moment) Idndly undertook to see him 
safe at Abbotsford. "We embarked in the James Watt 
steamboat, the master of which (Captain John Jamieson), as 
well as the agent of the proprietors, made every arrange- 
ment in their power for the convenience of the invalid. 
The "Captain gave up for Sir Walter's use his own private 
cabin, which was a separate erection, a sort of cottage, on 
the deck; and he seemed unconscious, after laid in bed 
there, that any new removal had occurred. On arriving at 
Newhaven, late on the 9th, we found careful preparations 
made for his landing by the manager of the Shipping Com- 
pany (Mr. Hamilton) ; and Sir Walter, prostrate in his 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 255 

carriage, was slung on shore, and conveyed from tlience to 
Douglas's hotel, in St. Andrew's Square, in the same com- 
plete apparent unconsciousness. Mrs. Douglas had in 
former days been the Duke of Buccleuch's housekeeper 
at Bowhill, and she and her husband had also made the 
most suitable provision. At a very early hour on the 
morning of "Wednesday, the 11th, we again placed him in 
his carriage, and he lay in the same torpid state during the 
first two stages on the road to Tweedside. But as we de- 
scended the vale of the Gala he began to gaze about him, 
and by degrees it was obvious that he was recognizing the 
features of that familiar landscape. Presently he mur- 
mured a name or two, — Gala Water, surely, — Buck- 
holm, — Torwoodlee." As we rounded the hill at Ladhope, 
and the outline of the Eildons burst on him, he became 
greatly excited, and when turning himself on the couch his 
eye caught at length his own towers, at the distance of a 
mile, he sprang up with a cry of delight. The river being 
in flood, we had to go round a few miles by Melrose bridge, 
and during the time this occupied, his woods and house 
being within prospect, it required occasionally both Dr. 
Watson's strength and mine, in addition to Nicolson's, to 
keep him in the carriage. After passing the bridge, the 
road for a couple of miles loses sight of Abbotsford, and he 
relapsed into his stupor; but on gaming the bank imme- 
diately above it, his excitement became again ungovern- 
able. 

Mr. Laidlaw was waiting at the porch, and assisted us 
in lifting him into the dining-room, where his bed had been 
prepared. He sat bewildered for a few moments, and then 
resting his eye on Laidlaw, said, "Ha! Willie Laidlaw! 
man, how often have I thought of you ! " By this time 
his dogs had assembled about his chaii', — they began to 
fawn upon him and lick his hands, and he alternately 
sobbed and smiled over them, until sleep oppressed him. 



256 JOHN G. LOCKHART. 

Dr. Watson having consulted on all tMngs with Mr 
Clarkson and his father, resigned the patient to them, and 
returned to London. None of them could have any hope, 
but that of soothing irritation. Recovery was no longer U 
be thought of; but there might be Euthanasia. 

And yet something like a ray of hope did break iis 
upon us next morning. Sir Walter awoke perfectly con 
scions where he was, and expressed an ardent wish to be 
carried out into his garden. We procured a Bath-chair from 
Huntly-Burn, and Laidlaw and I wheeled him out before^ 
his door, and up and down for some time on the turf, anif 
among the rose-beds, then in full bloom. The grandchil' 
dren admired the new vehicle, and would be helping m 
their way to push it about. He sat in silence, smiling pla- 
cidly on them, and the dogs their companions, and now and 
then admiring the house, the screen of the garden, and the 
flowers and trees. By and by he conversed a little, very 
composedly, with us, — said he was happy to be at home^ 
— that he felt better than he had ever done since he lefl 
it, and would perhaps disappoint the doctors after all. 

He then desired to be wheeled through his rooms, and 
we moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and dowa 
the hall and the great library. "I have seen much," he 
kept saying, "but nothing like my ain house, — give me 
one turn more ! " He was gentle as an infant, and allowed 
himself to be put to bed again, the moment we told him 
that we thought he had had enough for one day. 

Next morning he was still better; after again enjoying 
the Bath-chair for perhaps a couple of hours out of doors, 
he desired to be drawn into the library, and placed by the 
central window, that he might look down upon the Tweed. 

Here he expressed a wish that I should read to him, and 
when I asked from what book, he said, "Need you ask? 
There is but one." I chose the 14th chapter of St. John's 
Gospel; he listened with mild devotion, and said when I 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 257 

had done, " Well, tMs is a great comfort, — I have followed 
you distinctly, and I feel as if I were yet to be myself 
again." In this placid frame he was again put to bed, and 
had many hours of soft slumber. 

On the third day Mr. Laidlaw and I again wheeled him 
about the small piece of lawn and shrubbery in front of the 
house for some time, and the weather being delightful, and 
all the richness of summer around him, he seemed to taste 
fully the balmy influences of nature. The sun getting very 
strong, we halted the chair in a shady corner, just within 
the verge of liis verdant arcade around the court-wall ; and 
breathing the coolness of the spot, he said, " Read me some 
amusing thing, — read me a bit of Crabbe." I brought out 
the fii-st volume of his old favorite that I could lay hand on, 
and turned to what I remembered as one of his most favorite 
passages in it, — the description of the arrival of the play- 
ers in the Borough. He listened with great interest, and 
also, as I soon perceived, with great curiosity. Every 
now and then he exclaimed, " Capital — excellent — very 
good — Grabbe has lost nothing," — and we were too well 
satisfied that he considered himself as hearing a new pro- 
duction, when, chuckling over one couplet, he said, " Better 
and better — but how will poor Terry endure these cuts ? " 
I went on with the poet's terrible sarcasms upon the theat- 
rical life, and he listened eagerly, muttering, "Honest 
Dan!" — "Dan won't like this." At length I reached 
those lines, 

" Sad happy race ! soon raised and soon depressed, 
Your days all passed in jeopardy and jest : 
Poor without prudence, with aMctions vain, 
Not warned by misery, nor enriched by gain." 

"Shut the book," said Sir "Walter, — " I can't stand more of 
this, — it will touch Terry to the very quick." 

On the morning of Sunday, the 15th, he wa,s again taken 
out into the little pleasaunce, and got as far as his favorite 
17 



258 JOHN G. LOCKHAET. 

terrace-walk between the garden and the river, from whicli 
he seemed to survey the valley and the liills with much 
satisfaction. On re-entering the house, he desired me to 
read to him from the New Testament, and after that, he 
again called for a little of Crabbe ; but whatever I select- 
ed from that poet seemed to be listened to as if it made 
part of some new volume published while he was in Italy. 
He attended with this sense of novelty, even to the tale of 
Phoebe Dawson, which, not many months, before, he could 
have repeated every line of, and which I chose for one of 
these readings, because, as is known to every one, it had 
formed the last solace of Mi\ Fox's death-bed. On the con- 
trary, his recollection of whatever I read from the Bible 
appeared to be lively ; and in the afternoon, when we made 
his grandson, a child of six years, repeat some of Dr. 
Watts's hymns by his chair, he seemed also to remember 
them perfectly. That evening he heard the Church ser- 
vice, and when I was about to close the book, said, " Why 
do you omit the visitation for the sick ? " — which I added 
accordingly. 

On Monday he remained in bed and seemed extremely 
feeble; but after breakfast on Tuesday, the 17th, he ap- 
peared revived somewhat, and was again wheeled about 
on the turf. Presently he fell asleep in his chair, and after 
dozing for perhaps half an hour, started awake, and shak- 
ing the plaids we had put about him from off his shoul- 
ders, said : " This is sad idleness. I shall forget what I have 
been thinking of, if I don't set it down now. Take me into 
my own room, and fetch the keys of my desk." He re- 
peated this so earnestly that we could not refuse; his 
daughters went" into his study, opened his writing-desk, and 
laid paper and pens in the usual order, and I then moved 
him through the hall and into the spot where he had al 
ways been accustomed to work. When the chair ^vas 
placed at the desk, and he found himself in the old posi- 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 259 

tion. he iiiuiled and thanked us, and said, " Now give me 
my pen, and leave me for a little to myself." Sopliia put 
the pen into his hand, and he endeavored to close his fin- 
gers upon it, but they refused their office, — it dropped on 
the paper. He sank back among his pillows, silent tears 
rolling down his cheeks ; but composing himself by and by, 
motioned to me to wheel him out of doors again. Laidlaw 
met us at the porch, and took his turn of the chair. Sir 
Walter, after a little while, again di^opped into slumber. 
When he awakened, Laidlaw said to me, " Sir Walter 
has had a little repose." "No, Willie," said he, "no 
repose for Sir Walter but in the grave." The tears again 
rushed from liis eyes. " Friends," said he, " don't let me 
expose myself — get me to bed, — that 's the only place." 

With this scene ended our glimpse of daylight. Sir 
Walter never, I think, left his room afterwards, and hardly 
his bed, except for an hour or two in the middle of the 
day ; and after another week he was unable even for this. 
During a few days he was in a state of painful irritation, 
— and I saw realized all that he had himself prefigured in 
liis description of the meeting between Crystal Croftangry 
and his paralytic friend. Dr. Ross came out from Edin- 
burgh, bringing with him his wife, one of the dearest nieces 
of the Clerk's Table. Sir Walter with some difficulty rec- 
ognized the Doctor, — but, on hearing Mrs. Eoss's voice, 
exclaimed at once, " Is n't that Kate Hume ? " These kind 
friends remained for two or three days with us. Clarkson's 
lancet was pronounced necessary, and the relief it afforded 
was, I am happy to say, very effectual. 

After this he declhied daily, but still there was great 
strength to be wasted, and the process was long. He 
seemed, however, to suffer no bodily pain, and his mind, 
though hopelessly obscured, appeared, when there was any 
symptom of consciousness, to be dwelling, with rare excep- 
tions, on serious and solemn things ; the accent of the voice 



260 JOHN G. LOCKHART. 

grave, sometimes awful, but never querulous, and very 
seldom indicative of any angry or resentful thoughts. Now 
and then he imagined himself to be administering justice 
as Sheriff; and once or twice he seemed to be ordering 
Tom Purdie about trees. A few times also, I am sorry to 
say, we could perceive that his fancy was at Jedburgh, — 
and Burh Sir Walter escaped him in a melancholy tone. 
But commonly whatever we could follow him in was a 
fragment of the Bible (especially the Prophecies of Isaiah 
and the Book of Job) — of some petition in the litany — 
or a verse of some psalm (in the old Scotch metrical ver- 
sion) — or of some of the magnificent hymns of the Rom- 
ish ritual in which he had always delighted, but which 
probably hung on his memory now in connection with the 
church services he had attended while in Italy. We very 
often heard distinctly the cadence of the Dies Irce ; and I 
think that the very last stanza that we could make out was 
the first of a still greater favorite : — 
" Stabat Mater dolorosa, 

Juxta crucem lachrymosa, 

Dum pendebat Eilius.*' 

All this time he continued to recognize his daughters, 
Laidlaw, and myself, whenever we spoke to him, — and 
received every attention with a most touching thankfulness. 
Mr. Clarkson, too, was always saluted with the old cour- 
tesy, though the cloud opened but a moment for him to 
do so. Most truly might it be said that the gentleman sur- 
vived the genius. 

After two or three weeks bad passed in this way, I was 
obliged to leave Sir Walter for a single day, and go into 
Edinburgh, to transact business on his account, with Mr. 
Henry Cockbum (now Lord Cockbum), then Solicitor- 
General for Scotland. The Scotch Reform Bill threw a 
great burden of new duties and responsibilities upon the 
Sheriffs ; and Scott's Sheriff-substitute, the Laird of Rae- 



LAST LAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 261 

burn, not having been regularly educated for tlie law, found 
himself incompetent to encounter these novelties, especially 
as regarded the registration of voters, and other details 
connected with the recent enlargement of the electoral 
franchise. Under such circumstances, as no one but the 
Sheriff could appoint another Substitute, it became neces- 
sary for Sir Walter's family to communicate the state he 
was in in a formal manner to the Law Officers of the 
Crown ; and the Lord Advocate (Mr. Jeffrey), in conse- 
quence, introduced and carried through Parliament a short 
bill (2 and 3 William IV. cap. 101), authorizing the gov- 
ernment to appoint a new Sheriff of Selkirkshire, " during 
the incapacity or non-resignation of Sir Walter Scott." It 
was on this bill that the Solicitor- General had expressed a 
wish to converse with me ; but there was little to be said, 
as the temporary nature of the new appointment gave no 
occasion for any pecuniary question ; and, if that had been 
otherwise, the circumstances of the case would have ren- 
dered Sir Walter's family entirely indifferent upon such a 
subject. There can be no doubt that, if he had recovered 
in so far as to be capable of executing a resignation, the 
government would have considered it just to reward tliirty- 
two years' faithful services by a retired allowance equiva- 
lent to his salary, — and as little that the government 
would have had sincere satisfaction in settling that matter 
in the shape most acceptable to himself. And perhaps 
(though I feel that it is scarcely worth while) I may as 
well here express my regret that a statement highly unjust 
and injurious should have fomid its way into the pages of 
some of Sir Walter's preceding biographers. These writ- 
ers have thought fit to insinuate that there was a want of 
courtesy and respect on the part of the Lord Advocate, 
and the other official persons connected with this arrange- 
ment. On the contrary, nothing could be more handsome 
and delicate than the whole of their conduct in it; Mr, 



262 JOHN G. LOCKHART. 

Cockburn could not have entered into the case with greater 
feehng and tenderness, had it concerned a brother of his 
own ; and when Mr. Jeffrey introduced his bill m the House 
of Commons, he used language so graceful and touching, 
that both Sir Robert Peel and Mr. Croker went across the 
House to thank liim cordially for it. 

Perceiving, towards the close of August, that the end was 
near, and thinking it very likely that Abbotsford might soon 
undergo many changes, and myself, at all events, never see 
it again, I felt a desire to have some image preserved of 
the interior apartments as occupied by their founder, and 
invited from Edinburgh for that purpose Sir Walter's dear 
friend, William Allan, — whose presence, I well knew, 
would, even under the circumstances of that time, be nowise 
troublesome to any of the family, but the contrary in all 
respects. Mr. Allan willingly complied, and executed a 
series of beautiful drawings, which may probably be en- 
graved hereafter. He also shared our watchings, and wit- 
nessed all but the last moments. Sir Walter's cousins, the 
ladies of Ashestiel, came down frequently, for a day or 
two at a time, and did whatever sisterly affection could 
prompt, both for the sufferer and his daughters. Miss 
Barbara Scott (daughter of his Uncle Thomas) and Mrs. 
Scott of Harden did the like. 

As I was dressing on the morning of Monday the 17th 
of September, Nicolson came into my room, and told me 
that his master had awoke in a state of composure and con- 
sciousness, and wished to see me immediately. I found 
him entirely himself, though in the last extreme of feeble- 
ness. His eye was clear and calm — every trace of the 
wild fire of delirium extinguished. " Lockhart," he said, 
" I may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be 
a good man — be virtuous — be religious — be a good 
man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you 
come to lie here." He paused, and I said, " Shall I send 



LAST DAYS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 263 

for Sophia and Anne ? " " No," said he, " don't disturb 
them. Poor souls ! I know they were up all night — God 
bless you all." With this he sunk into a very tranquil 
sleep, and, indeed, he scarcely afterwards gave any sign 
of consciousness, except for an instant on the arrival of his 
sons. They, on learning that the scene was about to close, 
obtained a new leave of absence from their posts, and both 
reached Abbotsford on the 19th. About half past one 
P, M., on the 21st of September, Sir Walter breathed liis 
last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful 
day, — so warm that every window was wide open, — and 
so perfectly still that the sound of all others most delicious 
to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, 
was distinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his 
eldest son kissed and closed his eyes. 

'No sculptor ever modelled a more majestic image of 
repose. 

His funeral was conducted in an unostentatious manner, 
but the attendance was very great. Few of his old friends 
then in Scotland were absent, and many, both friends and 
strangers, came from a great distance. His old domestics 
and foresters made it their petition that no hireling hand 
might assist in carrying his remains. They themselves 
bore the coffin to the hearse, and from the hearse to the 
grave. The pall-bearers were his sons, liis son-in-law, and 
his little grandson ; his cousins, Charles Scott of Nesbitt, 
James Scott of Jedburgh, (sons to his Uncle Thomas,) Wil- 
liam Scott of Raebum, Robert Rutherford, Clerk to the 
Signet, Colonel (now Sir James) Russell of Ashestiel, Wil- 
liam Keith (brother to Sir Alexander Keith of Ravelstone), 
and the chief of his family, Hugh Scott of Harden, now 
Lord Polwarth. 

When the company were assembled, according to the 
usual Scotch fashion, prayers were offered up by the very 
Reverend Dr. Baird, Principal of the University of Edin 



2G4 JOHN G. LOCKHAET. 

burgh, and by tlie Eev. Dr. David Dickson, minister of St 
Cuthbert's, who both expatiated in a very striking manner 
on the virtuous example of the deceased. 

The court-yard and all the precincts of Abbotsford were 
crowded with uncovered spectators as the procession was 
arranged ; and as it advanced through Darnick and Mel- 
rose, and the adjacent villages, the whole population ap- 
peared at their doors in like manner, almost all in black. 
The train of carriages extended, I understand, over more 
than a mile, — the Yeomanry followed in great numbers 
on horseback — and it was late in the day ere we reached 
Dryburgh. Some accident, it was observed, had caused 
the hearse to halt for several minutes on the summit of the 
hill at Bemerside — exactly where a prospect of remarka- 
ble richness opens, and where Sir "Walter always had been 
accustomed to rein up his horse. The day was dark and 
lowermg, and the wind high. 

The wide enclosure at the abbey of Dryburgh was 
thronged with old and young; and when the coffin was 
taken from the hearse, and again laid on the shoulders of 
the afflicted serving-men, one deep sob burst from a thousand 
lips. Mr. Archdeacon "Williams read the Burial Service of 
the Church of England ; and thus, about half past five 
o'clock, in the evening of Wednesday, the 26th September, 
1832, the remains of Sir Walter Scott were laid by the 
side of his wife, in the sepulchre of his ancestors, — "m 
sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ ; who shall change our vile 
hody that it may he like unto his glorious body, according to 
the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things 
to himself" 




■y^/' 
V^.^^^^ 



vi^y 



THE NEW EDEN. 

(WRITTEN FOR A HORTICULTURAL FESTIYAL.) 

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



SCARCE could tlie parting ocean close, 
Seamed by the Mayflower's cleaving bow, 
When o'er the rugged desert rose 

The waves that tracked the Pilgrim's plough. 

Then sprang from many a rock-strewn field 
The ripphng grass, the nodding grain. 

Such growths as English meadows yield 
To scanty sun and frequent rain. 

But when the fiery days were done. 
And Autumn brougiit his purple haze, 

Then, kindling in the slanted sun, 

The hillsides gleamed with golden maize. 

Nor treat his homely gift with scorn 
Whose fading memory scarce can save 

The hillocks where he sowed his corn. 

The mounds that mark his nameless grave. 

The food was scant, the fruits were few : 
A red-streak glistened here and there ; 

Perchance in statelier precincts grew 
Some stern old Puritanic pear. 



2 06 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Austere in taste, and tough at core 
Its um-elenting bulk was shed. 

To ripen in the Pilgrim's store 

"When all the summer sweets were fled. 

Such was his lot, to front the storm 
With iron heart and marble brow, 

Nor ripen till his earthly form 

Was cast from life's autumnal bough. 

But ever on the bleakest rock 

We bid the brightest beacon glow, 

And still upon the thorniest stock 
The sweetest roses love to blow. 

So on our rude and wintry soil 
We feed the kindling flame of art, 

And steal the tropic's blushing spoil 
To bloom on Nature's icy heart. 

See how the softening Mother's breast 
Warms to her children's patient wiles, — - 

Her lips by loving Labor pressed 
Break in a thousand dimpling smiles. 

From when the flushing bud of June 
Dawns with its first am^oral hue, 

Till shines the rounded harvest-moon. 
And velvet dahlias drink the dew. 

Nor these the only gifts she brings ; 

Look where the laboring orchard groans. 
And yields its beryl-threaded strings 

For chestnut burs and hemlock cones. 



THE NEW EDEN. 267 

Dear tliongla the shadowy maple be, 

And dearer still the whispering pine, 
Dearest jon russet-laden tree 

Browned by the heavy rubbing kine ! 

There childhood flung its venturous stone. 

And boyhood tried its dai^ing climb. 
And though our summer birds have flown 

It blooms as in the olden tune. 

Nor be the Fleming's pride forgot. 

With swinging drops and drooping bells, 

Freckled and splashed with streak and spot, 
On the warm-breasted, sloping swells ; 

Nor Persia's painted garden-queen, — 

Frail Houri of the trellised wall, — 
Her deep-cleft bosom scarfed with green,— ' 

Fairest to see, and first to fall. 



When man provoked his mortal doom. 
And Eden trembled as he fell, 

When blossoms sighed theii- last perfume, 
And branches waved their long farewell. 

One sucker crept beneath the gate. 
One seed was wafted o'er the wall. 

One bough sustained his trembling weight ; 
These left the garden, — these were all. 

And far o'er many a distant zone 

These wrecks of Eden still are flung ; 

The fruits that Paradise hath known 
Are still in earthly gardens hung. 



268 OLIVEK WENDELL HOLMES. 

Yes, by our own unstoried stream 
The pink-white apple-blossoms burst 

That saw the young Euphrates gleam, — 
That Gihon's circling waters nursed. 

For us the ambrosial pear displays 
The wealth its arching branches hold, 

Bathed by a hundred summery days 
In floods of mingling fire and gold. 

And here, where beauty's cheek of flame 
With morning's earhest beam is fed. 

The sunset-painted peach may claim 
To rival its celestial red. 



What though in some unmoistened vale 
The summer leaf grow brown and sere, 

Say, shall our star of promise fail 
That circles half the rolling sphere, 

From beaches salt with bitter spray, 
O'er prairies green with softest rain, 

And ridges bright with evening's ray. 
To rocks that shade the stormless main ? 

If by our slender-threaded streams 
The blade and leaf and blossom die, 

If, drained by noontide's parching beams, 
The milky veins of Nature dry. 

See, with her swelling bosom bare. 
Yon wild-eyed Sister in the West, — 

The ring of Empire round her hair, — 
The Indian's wampum on her breast ! 



THE NEAY EDEN. 269 

We saw the August sun descend, 



Day after day, with blood-red stain, 
And the blue mountains dimly blend 

With smoke-wreaths from the burning plain ; 

Beneath the hot Sirocco's winors 

o 

We sat and told the withering hours, 
Till Heaven unsealed its azure springs, 
And bade them leap in flashing showers. 

Yet in our Ishmael's thirst we knew 
The mercy of the Sovereign hand 

Would pour the fountain's quickening dew 
To feed some harvest of the land. 

No flaming swords of wrath surround 
Our second Garden of the Blest ; 

It spreads beyond its rocky bound, 
It climbs Nevada's ghttering crest. 

God keep the tempter from its gate ! 

God shield the children, lest they fall 
From their stern fathers' free estate, 

Till Ocean is its only wall ! 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES -THIRTY YEARS AGO. 

By JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 



CAMBEIDGE has long had its port, but the greater 
part of its maritime trade was, thirty years ago, in- 
trusted to a single Argo, the sloop Harvard, which belonged 
to the College, and made annual voyages to that vague 
Orient, known as Down East, bringing back the wood that 
in those days gave to winter life at Harvard a crackle and 
a cheerfulness, for the loss of which the greater warmth 
of anthracite hardly compensates. New England life, to 
be genuine, must have in it some sentiment of the sea, — 
it was this instinct that printed the device of the pine-tree 
on the old money and the old flag, and these periodic ven- 
tures of the sloop Harvard made the old Viking fibre 
vibrate in the hearts of all the village boys. What a vista 
of mystery and adventure did her sailing open to us ! 
With what pride did we hail her return! She was our 
scholiast upon Robinson Crusoe and the Mutiny of the 
Bounty. Her captain still lords it over our memories, 
the greatest sailor that ever sailed the seas, and we should 
not look at Sir John Franklin himself with such admiring 
interest as that with which we enhaloed some larger boy 
who had made a voyage in her, and had come back with- 
out braces to his trousers {gallowses we called them) and 
squirting ostentatiously the juice of that weed which still 
gave him little private returns of something very hke sea- 



CAMBRIDGE WOETHIES — THIETY YEARS AGO. 271 

sickness. All our shingle vessels were shaped and rigged 
by her, who was our glass of naval fashion and onr mould 
of aquatic form. We had a secret and wild delight in 
believing that she carried a gun, and imagined her sending 
grape and canister among the treacherous savages of Old- 
town. Inspired by her were those first essays at navigation 
on the Winthrop duck-pond of the plucky boy who was 
afterward to serve two famous years before the mast. 

The greater part of what is now Cambridgeport was then 
(in the native dialect) a huchlelerry pastur. "Woods were 
not wanting on its outskirts, of pine, and oak, and maple, 
and the rarer tupelo with downward limbs. Its veins did 
not draw their blood from the quiet old heart of the village, 
but it had a distinct being of its own, and was rather a 
great caravansary than a suburb. The chief feature of 
the place was its inns, of which there were five, with vast 
bams and court-yards, which the railroad was to make as 
silent and deserted as the palaces of Nimroud. Great 
white-topped wagons, each drawn by double files of six 
or eight horses, with its dusty bucket swinging from the 
hinder axle, and its grim bull-dog trotting silent underneath, 
or in midsummer panting on the lofty perch beside the 
driver (how elevated thither bafiled conjecture), brought 
all the wares and products of the country to their mart 
and seaport in Boston. Those filled the inn-yards, or 
were ranged side by side under broad-roofed sheds, and far 
into the night the mirth of their lusty drivers clamored 
from the red-curtained bar-room, while the single lantern 
swaying to and fro in the black cavern of the stables made 
a Eembrandt of the group of hostlers and horses below. 
There were, beside the taverns, some huge square stores 
where groceries were sold, some houses, by whom or why 
inhabited was to us boys a problem, and, on the edge of the 
marsh, a currier's shop, where, at high tide, on a floating 
platform, men were always beating skins in a way to remind 



272 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

one of Don Quixote's fulling-mills. Nor did these make 
all tlie Port. As there is always a Coming Man who never 
comes, so there is a man who always comes (it may be 
only a quarter of an hour) too early. This man, as far as 
the Port is concerned, was Rufus Davenport. Looking at 
the marshy flats of Cambridge, and considering their near- 
ness to Boston, he resolved that there should grow up a 
suburban Venice. Accordingly, the marshes were bought, 
canals were dug, ample for the commerce of both Indies, 
and four or five rows of brick houses were built to meet 
the first wants of the wading settlers who were expected 
to rush in — whence ? This singular question had never 
occurred to the enthusiastic projector. There are laws 
which govern human migrations quite beyond the control 
of the speculator, as many a man with desirable building- 
lots has discovered to his cost. Why mortal men will pay 
more for a chess-board square in that swamp than for an 
acre on the breezy upland close by, who shall say ? And 
again, why, having shown such a passion for your swamp, 
they are so coy of mine, who shall say ? Not certainly any 
one who, like Davenport, had got up too early for his gen- 
eration. If ^\Q could only carry that slow, imperturbable 
old clock of Opportunity, that never strikes a second too 
soon or too late, in our fobs, and push the hands forward 
as we call those of our watches ! With a foreseeing econ- 
omy of space which now seems ludicrous, the roofs of this 
forlorn hope of houses were made flat that the swarming 
population might have where to dry their clothes. But 
A. U. C. 30 showed the same view as A. U. C. 1, — only 
that the brick blocks looked as if they had been struck by a 
malaria. The dull weed upholstered the decaying wharves, 
and the only freight that heaped them was the kelp and 
eelgrass left by higher floods. Instead of a Venice, behold 
a Torzelo ! The unfortunate projector took to the last 
refuge of the unhappy, — bookmaking, — and bored the 



CAMBRIDGE WOETHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 273 

reluctant public with what he called a Eightaim Testament, 
prefaced by a recommendation from General Jackson, who 
perhaps, from its title, took it for some treatise on ball- 
practice. 

But even Cambridgeport, my dear Storg, did not want 
associations poetic and venerable. The stranger who took 
the " Hourly " at Old Cambridge, if he were a physiog- 
nomist and student of character might perhaps have had 
his curiosity excited by a person who mounted the coach 
at the Port. So refined was his whole appearance, so 
fastidiously neat his apparel, — but with a neatness that 
seemed less the result of care and plan than a something 
as proper to the man as whiteness to the lily, — that you 
would have at once classed him with those individuals, 
rarer than great captains and almost as rare as gi-eat 2Doets, 
whom nature sends into the world to fill the arduous office 
of Gentleman. Were you ever emperor of that Barataria 
which under your peaceful sceptre would present, of course, 
a model of government, this remarkable person should be 
Duke of Bienseance and Master of Ceremonies. There 
are some men whom destiny has endowed with the faculty 
of external neatness, whose clothes are repellant of dust 
and mud, Vhose unwithering white neckcloths persevere 
to the day's end, unappeasably seeing the sun go down 
upon their starch, and whose linen makes you fancy them 
heirs in the maternal line to the instincts of all the wash- 
erwomen from Eve downward. There are others whose 
inward natures possess this fatal cleanness, incapable of 
moral dirt-spot. You are not long in discovering that the 
stranger combines in himself both these properties. A 
niinbus of hair, fine as an infant's, and early white, show- 
ing refinement of organization and the predominance of 
the spiritual over the physical, undulated and floated around 
a face that seemed like pale flame, and over which the flit- 
ting shades of expression chased each other, fugitive and 
18 



274 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

gleaming as waves upon a field of rye. It was a counte- 
nance that, without any beauty of feature, was very beau- 
tiful. I have said that it looked like pale flame, and can 
find no other words for the impression it gave. Here was 
a man all soul, whose body seemed only a lamp of finest 
clay, whose service was to feed with magic oils, rare and 
fragrant, that wavering fire wliich hovered over it. You, 
who are an adept in such matters, would have detected 
in the eyes that artist-look which seems to see pictures ever 
iu the air, and which, if it fall on you, makes you feel as 
if all the world were a gallery, and yourself the rather 
indifferent Portrait of a Gentleman hung therein. As the 
stranger brushes by you in alighting, you detect a single 
incongruity, — a smell of dead tobacco-smoke. You ask 
his name, and the answer is, Mr. Allston. 

" Mr. Allston ! " and you resolve to note down at once 
in your diary every look, every gesture, every word of the 
great painter ? Not in the least. You have the true An- 
glo-Norman indifference, and most likely never think of 
liim again till you hear that one of liis pictures has sold 
for a great price, ajid then contrive to let your grand- 
childi-en know twice a week that you met him once in a 
coach, and that he said, " Excuse me, sir," in a very Titian- 
esque manner when he stumbled over your toes in getting 
out. Hitherto Boswell is quite as unique as Shakespeare. 
The country-gentleman, journeying up to London, inquires 
of Mistress Davenant at the Oxford inn the name of his 
pleasant companion of the night before. " Master Shake- 
speare, an 't please your worship," and the Justice, not with- 
out a sense of unbending, says, " Truly, a meiTy and 
conceited gentleman ! " It is lucky for the peace of great 
men that the world seldom finds out contemporaneously 
who its great men are, or, perhaps, that each man esteems 
himself the fortunate he who shall draw the lot of mem* 
cry from the helmet of the future. Had the eyes of some 



CAMBEIDGE WOETHIES — THIETY TEARS AGO. 275 

Stratford burgess been achromatic telescopes capable of a 
perspective of two hundred years ! But, even then, would 
not his record have been fuller of says-Is than of says-hes ? 
Nevertheless, it is curious to consider from what infinitely 
varied points of view we might form our estimate of a great 
man's character, when we remember that he had his points 
of contact with the butcher, the baker, and the candle-stick- 
maker, as well as with the ingenious A, the sublime B, 
and the Eight Honorable C. If it be true that no man 
ever clean forgets everything, and that the act of drowning 
(as is asserted) forthwith brightens up all those o'er-rusted 
impress-ions, would it not be a curious experiment, if, after 
a remarkable person's death, the public, eager for minutest 
particulars, should gather together all who had e^-er been 
brought into relations with liim, and, submerging them to 
the hair's-breadth hitherward of the drowning-point, subject 
them to strict cross-examination by the Humane Society, 
as soon as they became consc'ous between the resuscitating 
blankets? All of us probably have brushed against des- 
tiny in the street, have shaken hands with it, fallen asleep 
with it in railway carriages, and knocked heads mth it in 
some one or other of its yet unrecognized incarnations. 

Will it seem like presenting a tract to a colporteur, my 
dear Storg, if I say a word or two about an artist to you 
over there in Italy ? Be patient, and leave your button in 
my grasp yet a little longer. A person whose opinion is 
worth having once said to me, that, however one's opinions 
might be modified by going to Europe, one always came 
back with a higher esteem for Allston. Certainly he is 
thus far the greatest English painter of liistorical subjects. 
And only consider how strong must have been the artistic 
bias in him to have made him a painter at all under the cir- 
cumstances. There were no traditions of art, so necessary 
for guidance and inspiration. Blackburn, Smibert, Copley, 
Trumbull, Stuart, — it was, after all, but a Brentford seep- 



276 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

tre wliicli tlieir heirs could aspire to, and theirs were not 
names to conjure with, like those through which Fame, as 
through a silver trumpet, had blown for three centuries. 
Copley and Stuart were both remarkable men, but the one 
painted like an inspired silk-mercer, and the other seems to 
have mixed his colors with the claret of which he and his 
generation were so fond. And what could a successful 
artist hope for at that time beyond the mere wages of his 
work ? His pictures would hang in cramped back-parlors, 
between deadly cross-fires of lights, sure of the garret or 
the auction-room erelong, in a country where the nomad 
population carry no household gods mth them but their five 
wits and their ten fingers. As a race, we care nothing 
about Ai^t, but the Puritan and the Quaker are the only 
Anglo-Saxons who have had pluck enough to confess it. If 
it were surprising that Allston should have become a painter 
at all, how almost miraculous that he should have been a 
great and original one. We call him original deliberately, 
because, though liis school is essentially Italian, it is of less 
consequence where a man buys his tools, than what use he 
makes of them. Enough English artists went to Italy and 
came back painting liistory in a very Anglo-Saxon manner, 
and creating a school as melodramatic as the French, with- 
out its perfection in technicahties. But Allston carried 
thither a nature open on the Southern side, and brought 
it back so steeped in rich Italian sunshine that the east 
^vinds (whether physical or intellectual) of Bostoji and the 
dusts of Cambridgeport assailed it in vain. To that bare 
wooden studio one might go to breathe Venetian air, and 
better yet, the very spirit wherein the elder brothers of Art 
labored, etberealized by metaphysical speculation, and sub- 
limed by religious fervor. The beautiful old man ! Here 
was genius with no volcanic explosions (the mechanic result 
of vulgar gunpowder often), but lovely as a I^apland night; 
here was fame, not sought after nor worn in any cheap 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 277 

French fashion as a ribbon at the button-hole, but so gentle, 
so retiring, that it seemed no more than an assured and em- 
boldened modesty ; here was ambition, undebased by rivaliy 
and incapable of the downward look ; and all these massed 
and harmonized together into a purity and depth of charac- 
ter, into a tone, which made the daily life of the man the 
greatest masterpiece of the artist. 

But let us go to the Old Town. Thirty years since, the 
Muster and the Comwallis allowed some vent to those natu- 
ral instincts which Puritanism scotched, but not killed. The 
Cornwallis had entered upon the estates of the old Guy 
Fawkes procession, confiscated by the Revolution. It was 
a masquerade, in which that grave and suppressed humor 
of which the Yankees are fuller than other people, burst 
through all restraints, and disported itself in all the wildest 
vagaries of fun. It is a curious commentary on the artifi- 
ciality of our lives, that men must be disguised and masked 
before they mil venture into the obscurer corners of their 
individuality, and display the true features of their nature. 
One remarked it in the Carnival, and one especially noted 
it here among a race naturally self-restrained; for Silas, 
and Ezra, and Jonas were not only disguised as Redcoats, 
Continentals, and Indians, but not unfrequently disguised in 
drink also. It is a question whether the Lyceum, where 
the public is obliged to comprehend all vagrom men, sup- 
plies the place of the old popular amusements. A hundred 
and fifty years ago. Cotton Mather bewails the carnal attrac- 
tions of the tavern and the training-field, and tells of an old 
Indian, who imperfectly understood the English tongue, but 
desperately mastered enough of it (when under sentence of 
death) to express a desire for instant hemp rather than 
listen to any more ghostly consolations. Puritanism — I 
am perfectly aware how great a debt we owe it — tried over 
again the old experiment of driving out nature with a pitch- 
fork, and had the usual success. It was like a ship inwardly 



278 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

on firo, whose hatclies must be kept liermetically battened 
clown, for tlie admittance of an ounce of heaven's own natu- 
ral air would ex^Dlode it utterly. Morals can never be 
safely embodied in the constable. Polished, cultivated, fas- 
cinating Mephistophiles ! it is for the ungovernable break- 
ings-away of the soul from unnatural compressions that thou 
waitest vfith a patient smile. Then it is that thou offerest 
thy gentlemanly arm to unguarded youth for a pleasant 
stroll through the City of Destruction, and, as a special 
favor, introducest him to the bewitching Miss Circe, and to 
that model of the hospitable old English gentleman, Mr. 
Comus ! 

But the Muster and the Cornwallis v/ere not peculiar to 
Cambridge. Commencement Day w^as. Saint Pedagogus 
was a worthy whose feast could be celebrated by men 
who quarrelled with minced-pies and blasphemed custard 
through the nose. The holiday preserved all the features 
of an English fair. Stations were marked out beforehand 
by the town constables, and distinguished by numbered 
stakes. These were assigned to the different vendors of 
small wares, and exhibitors of rarities, whose canvas booths, 
beginning at the market-place, sometimes half encircled the 
common with their jovial embrace. Now, all the Jehoiada- 
boxes in town were forced to give up all their rattling 
deposits of specie, if not through the legitimate orifice, then 
to the brute force of the hammer. For hither were come 
all the wonders of the world, making the Arabian Nights 
seem possible, and which we beheld for half price, not with- 
out mingled emotions, — pleasure at the economy, and shame 
at not paying the more manly fee. Here the mummy un- 
veiled her withered charms, a more marvellous Ninon, still 
attractive in her three thousandth year. Here were the 
Siamese Twins — ah, if all such enforced and unnatural 
unions were made a show of! Here were the flying-horses 
(their supernatural effect injured — like that of some po- 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 279 

ems — by the visibility of the man who turned the crank), 
on wliich, as we tilted at the ring, we felt our shoulders tin- 
gle with the accolade^ and heard the clink of golden spurs' 
at our heels. Are the realities of life ever worth half so 
much as its cheats ? and are there any feasts half so fiUing 
at the price as those Barmecide ones spread for us by Im- 
agination? Hither came the Canadian giant, surrepti- 
tiously seen, without price, as he alighted, in broad day 
(giants were always foolish), at the tavern. BQther came 
the great horse Columbus, with shoes two inches tliick, and 
more wsely introduced by night. In the trough of the* 
town-pump might be seen the mermaid, its poor monkey's 
head carefully sustained above water for fear of drowning. 
There were dwarfs, also, who danced and sang, and many a 
proprietor regretted the transaudient properties of canvas, 
which allowed the frugal public to share in the melody 
without entering the booth. Is it a slander of J. H., who 
reports that he once saw a deacon, eminent for psalmody, 
lingering near one of these vocal tents, and, with an assumed 
air of abstraction, furtively drinking in, with unhabitual ears, 
a song, not secular merely, but with a dash of libertinism ! 
The New England proverb says, " All deacons are good, 
but — there's a difference in deacons." On these days 
Snow became super-terranean, and had a stand in the 
square, and Lewis temperately contended mth the stronger 
fascinations of egg-pop. But space would fail me to make 
a catalogue of everything. No doubt. Wisdom also, as 
usual, had her quiet booth at the corner of some street, 
without entrance-fee, and, even at that rate, got never a 
customer the whole day long. For the bankrupt afternoon 
there were peep-shows, at a cent each. 

But all these shows and their showers are as clean gone 
now as those of Csesar and Timour and Napoleon, for which 
the* world paid dearer. They are utterly gone out, not 
leaving so much as a snuff behind, — as little thought of 



280 JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 

now as tliat John Robins, who was once so considerable 
a phenomenon as to be esteemed the last great Antichrist 
and son of perdition by the entire sect of Muggletonians. 
Were Commencement what it used to be, I should be 
tempted to take a booth myself, and try an experiment 
recommended by a satirist of some merit, whose works 
were long ago dead and (I fear) deedeed to boot: — 
-■■ Menenius, thou who fain wouldst know how calmly men can pass 
Those biting portraits of themselves, disguised as fox or ass, — 
Go, borrow coin enough to buy a full-length psyche-glass, 
Engage a rather darkish room in some well-sought position, 
And let the town break out with bills, so much per head admission, — 
Geeat Natueal Curiosity ! ! The Biggest Living Fool ! ! ! 
Arrange your mirror cleverly, before it set a stool. 
Admit the public one by one, place each upon the seat. 
Draw up the curtain, let him look his fill, and then retreat : 
Smith mounts and takes a thorough view, then comes serenely down. 
Goes home and tells his wife the thing is curiously like Brown ; 
Brown goes and stares, and tells his wife the wonder's core and pith 
Is that 't is just the counterpart of that conceited Smith : 
Life calls us all to such a show ; Menenius, trust in me, 
While thou to see thy neighbor smil'st, he does the same for thee ! " 

My dear Storg, would you come to my show, and, instead 
of looking in my glass, insist on taking your money's worth 
in staring at the exhibitor? 

Not least among the curiosities which the day brought 
together, were some of the graduates, posthumous men, as 
it were disentombed from country parishes and district 
schools, but perennial also, in whom freshly survived all 
the college jokes, and who had no intelligence later than 
their Senior year. These had gathered to eat the college 
dinner, and to get the Triennial Catalogue (their Libro d'oro) 
referred to oftener than any volume but the Concordance. 
Aspiring men they were, certainly, but in a right, unworldly 
way ; this scholastic festival opening a peaceful path to the 
ambition which might else have devasted mankind with 
Prolusions on the Pentateuch, or Genealogies of the Dor- 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 281 

mouse Family. For, since in the Academic processions 
the classes are ranked in the order of their graduation, and 
he has the best chance at the dinner who has the fewest 
teeth to eat it with, so by degrees there springs up a 
competition in longevity, the prize contended for being the 
oldest surviving graduateshi]^. This is an office, it is true, 
without emolument, but having certain advantages, never- 
theless. The incumbent, if he come to Commencement, 
is a prodigious lion, and commonly gets a paragraph in the 
newspapers once a year with the (fiftieth) last survivor of 
Washington's Life Guard. K a clergyman, he is expected 
to ask a blessing and return thanks at the dinner, a function 
which he performs with centenarian longanimity, as if he 
reckoned the ordinary life of man to be fivescore years, 
and that a grace must be long to reach so very far ix^yay 
as heaven. Accordingly, this silent race is watched, on 
the course of the catalogue, with an interest worthy of 
Newmarket ; and, as star after star rises in tliat galaxy of 
death,* till one name is left alone, an oasis of life in the 
Stellar desert, it grows solemn. The natural feeling is 
reversed, and it is the solitary life that becomes sad and 
monitory, the Stylites, there, on the lonely top of his cen- 
tury-pillar, who has heard the passing-bell of youth, love, 
friendship, hope, — of everything but immitigable eld. 

Dr. K. was President of the University then, a man of 
genius, but of genius that evaded utilization, a great water- 
power, but without rapids, and flowing with too smooth and 
gentle a current to be set turning wheels and whirling 
spindles. His was not that restless genius, of which the 
man seems to be merely the representative, and which 
wreaks itself in literature or politics, but of that milder 
sort, quite as genuine, and perhaps of more contempora- 
neous value, which is the man, permeating a whole hfe 
w^ith placid force, and giving to word, look, and gesture a 
meaning only justifiable by our belief in a reserved power 



282 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

of latent reinforcement. The man of talents possesses 
them like so many tools, does his job with them, and there 
an end ; but the man of genius is possessed by it, and it 
makes him into a book or a life according to its whim. 
Talent takes the existing moulds and makes its castings, 
better or worse, of richer or baser metal, according to knack 
and opportunity ; but genius is always shaping new ones 
and runs the man in them, so that there is always that 
human feel in its results which gives us a kindred thrill. 
What it will make we can only conjecture, contented always 
^ntli knowing the infinite balance of possibility against 
which it can draw at pleasure. Have you ever seen a 
man whose check would be honored for a million pay his 
toll of one cent, and has not that bit of copper, no bigger 
than your own and piled with it by the careless tollman, 
given you a tingling vision of what golden bridges he could 
pass, into what Elysian regions of taste and enjoyment and 
culture, barred to the rest of us ? Something like it is the 
impression made by such characters as K.'s on those Avho 
come in contact with them. 

There Avas that in the soft and rounded (I had almost 
said melting) outlines of his face wliich reminded one of 
Chaucer. The head had a placid yet dignified droop like 
liis. He was an anachronism, fitter to have been Abbot of 
Fountains or Bishop Golias, courtier and priest, humorist 
and lord spiritual, all in one, than for the mastership of a 
provincial college which combined with its purely scholastic 
functions those of accountant and cliief of police. For 
keeping books he was incompetent, (unless it were those he 
borrowed,) and the only discipline he exercised was by the 
unobtrusive pressure of a gentlemanliness which rendered 
insubordination to Mm impossible. But the world always 
judges a man (and rightly enough, too) by his little faults 
which he shows a hundred times a day, rather than by his 
great virtues which he discloses perhaps but once in a life- 



CAMBEIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 283 

time and to a single person, nay, in proportion as they are 
rarer, and as he is nobler, is shier of letting their existence 
be known at all. He was one of those misplaced persons 
whose misfortmie it is that their lives overlap two distinct 
eras, and are already so impregnated ^^dth one, that they can 
never be in healthy sympathy with the other. Born when 
the New England clergy were still an establishment and an 
aristocracy, and when office was almost always for life and 
often hereditary, he lived to be thrown upon a time when 
avocations of all colors might be shuffled together in the life 
of one man like a pack of cards, so that you could not 
prophesy that he who was ordained to-day might not ac- 
cept a colonelcy of filibusters to-morrow. Such tempera- 
ments as his attach themselves like barnacles to what seems 
permanent, but presently the good ship Progress weighs 
anchor and whirls them away from drowsy tropic inlets to 
arctic waters of unnatural ice. To such crustaceous na- 
tures, created to cling upon the immemorial rock amid 
softest mosses, comes the bustling Nineteenth Century, and 
says, " Come, come, bestir yourself to be practical : get out 
of that old shell of yours forthwith ! " Alas, to get out of 
the shell is to die ! 

One of the old travellers in South America tells of fishes 
that built their nests in trees (piscium et mmma JkesU genus 
ulmo), and gives a print of the mother fish upon her nest, 
wliile her mate mounts perpendicularly to her without aid 
of legs or wings. Life shows plenty of such incongruities 
between a man's place and his nature, (not so easily got 
over as by the traveller's undoubting engraver,) and one 
cannot help fancying that K. was an instance in point. He 
never encountered, one would say, the attraction proper 
to draw out his native force. Certainly few men who 
impressed others so strongly, and of whom so many good 
things are remembered, left less behind them to justify 
contemporary estimates. He printed nothing, and w^as, 



284- JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

perhaps, one of those the electric sparkles of whose brains, 
discharged naturally and healthily in conversation, refuse 
to pass through the non-conducting medium of the inkstand. 
His ana would make a delightful collection. One or two 
of his official ones will be in place here. Hearing that 
Porter's flip (which was exemplary) had too great an at- 
traction for the collegians, he resolved to investigate the 
matter himself. Accordingly, entering the old inn one day, 
he called for a mug of it, and, having drunk it, said, " And 
so, Mr. Porter, the young gentlemen come to drink your 
flip, do they ? " 

" Yes sir — sometimes." 

" Ah, well, I should think they would. Good day, Mr. 
Porter," and departed, saying nothing more, for he always 
wisely allowed for the existence of a certain amount of 
human nature in ingenuous youth. At another time the 
" Harvard Washington " asked leave to go into Boston to 
a collation which had been offered them. " Certainly, 
young gentlemen," said the President, "but have you en- 
gaged any one to bring out your muskets ? " — the College 
being responsible for these weapons, wliicli belonged to the 
State. Again, when a student came with a physician's 
certificate, and asked leave of absence, K. granted it at 
once, and then added, " By the way, Mr. •, persons in- 
terested in the relation which exists between states of the 
atmosphere and health, have noticed a curious fact in regard 
to the climate of Cambridge, especially within the College 
limits, — the very small number of deaths m proportion to 
the cases of dangerous illness." This is told of Judge W., 
himself a wdt, and capable of enjoying the humorous deli- 
cacy of the reproof. 

Shall I take Brahmin Alcott's favorite word, and call him 
a daemonic man? No, the Latin genius is quite old-fash- 
ioned enough for me, means the same thmg, and its deriva- 
tive geniality expresses, moreover, the base of K.'s being. 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 285 

How lie suggested cloistered repose and quadrangles mossy 
with centurial associations ! How easy lie was, and how 
without creak was every movement of his mind ! This life 
was good enough for him, and the next not too good. The 
gentlemanlike pervaded even his prayers. His were not 
the manners of a man of the world, nor of a man of the 
other world either, but both met in him to balance each 
other in a beautiful equilibrium. Praying, he leaned for- 
ward upon the pulpit-eushion as for conversation, and seemed 
to feel himself (mtliout irreverence) on terms of friendly but 
courteous familiarity with Heaven. The expression of his 
face was that of tranquil contentment, and he appeared less 
to be suppHcating expected mercies than thankful for those 
already found, as if he were saying the gratias in the refec- 
tory of the Abbey of Theleme. Under him. flourished the 
Harvard Wasliington Corps, whose gyi'ating baimer, in- 
scribed Tarn 3£arti qiiam Mercurio (atqui magis Lyceo 
should have been added), on the evenmg of training-days, 
was an accurate dynamometer of Willard's punch or Por- 
ter's flip. It was they who, after being royally entertained 
by a maiden lady of the town, entered in their orderly book 
a vote that Miss Blank was a gentleman. I see them now, 
returning from the imminent deadly breach of the law of 
Eecliab, unable to form other than the serpentine line of 
beauty, wliile their officers, brotherly rather than imperious, 
instead of reprimanding, tearfully embraced the more eccen- 
tric wanderers from military precision. Under him the 
Med. Facs. took their equal place among the learned socie- 
ties of Europe, numbering among their grateful honorary 
members Alexander, Emperor of all the Pussias, who (if 
College legends may be trusted) sent them, in return for 
their diploma, a gift of medals, confiscated by the authori- 
ties. Under him the College fire-engine was vigilant and 
active in suppressing any tendency to spontaneous combus- 
tion among the Freshmen, or rushed mldly to imaginary 



286 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

conflagrations, generally in a direction where punch was 
to be had. All these useful conductors for the natural 
electricity of youth, dispersing it or turning it harmlessly 
into the earth, are taken away now, wisely or not, is ques- 
tionable. 

An academic town, in whose atmosphere there is always 
something antiseptic, seems naturally to draw to itself cer- 
tain varieties and to preserve certain humors (in the Ben 
Jonsonian sense) of character, — men who come not to study 
so much as to be studied. At the head-quarters of Wash- 
ington once, and now of the Muses, lived C , but before 

the date of these recollections. Here for seven years (as 
the law was tlien) he made his house his castle, sunning 
himself in his elbow-chair at the front-door, on that seventh 
day, secure from every arrest but that of Death. Here 
long sur\dved liim liis turbaned widow, studious only of Spi- 
noza, and refusing to molest the canker-worms that annually 
disleaved her elms, because we were aR vermicular alike. 
She had been a famous beauty once, but the canker years 
had left her leafless too, and I used to wonder, as I saiv her 
sitting always alone at her accustomed window, whether she 
were ever visited by the reproachful shade of hun who (in 
spite of Rosalind) died broken-hearted for her in her radi- 
ant youth. 

And this reminds me of J. F., who, also crossed in love, 
allowed no mortal eye to behold his face for many years. 
The eremitic instinct is not pecuhar to the Thebais, as many 
a New England village can testify, and it is worthy of con- 
sideration that the Romish Church has not forgotten tliis 
among her other points of intimate contact with human 
natm-e. F. became purely vespertinal, never stirring abroad 
till after dark. He occupied two rooms, migrating from one 
to the other as the necessities of housewifery demanded, 
and when it was requisite that he should put his signature 
to any legal instrument, (for he was an anchorite of ample 



CAilBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 287 

means,) lie wrapped himself in a blanket, allowing nothing 
to be seen but the hand wliich acted as scribe. What im- 
pressed us boys more than anything was the rumor that he 
had suffered liis beard to grow, such an anti-Sheffieldism 
being almost unheard of in those days, and the pecuhar 
ornament of man being associated in our minds with noth- 
ing more recent than the patriarchs and apostles, whose 
effigies we were obliged to solace ourselves with weekly in 
the Family Bible. He came out of his oysterhood at last, 
and I knew him well, a kind-hearted man, who gave annual 
sleigh-rides to the town paupers, and supplied the poorer 
children with school-books. His favorite topic of conversa- 
tion was Eternity, and, like many other worthy persons, he 
used to fancy that meaning was an affau- of aggregation, and 
that he doubled the intensity of what he said by the sole aid 
of the multiplication-table. "Eternity!" he used to say, 
" it is not a day ; it is not a year ; it is not a hundred years ; 
it is not a thousand years ; it is not a million 3'ears ; no, sir " 
(the Sir being thrown in to recall wandering attention), " it 
is not ten million years ! " and so on, his entlmsiasm becom- 
ing a mere frenzy when he got among his sextillions, till I 
sometimes wished he had continued in retirement. He used 
to sit at the open window during thunder-storms, and had a 
Grecian feeling about death by lightning. In a certain 
sense he had his desire, for he died suddenly, — not by fire 
from heaven, but by the red flash of apoplexy, leaving his 
whole estate to charitable uses. 

If K. were out of place as president, that was not P. as 
Greek professor. Who that ever saw him can forget him, 
in his old age, like a lusty winter, frosty but kindly, with 
great silver spectacles of the heroic period, such as scarce 
twelve noses of these degenerate days could bear ? He was 
a natural celibate, not dwelling " like the fly in the heart of 
the apple," but hke a lonely bee, rather, absconding himself 
In Hymettian flowers, incapable of matrimony as a solitary 



288 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

palm-tree. There was not even a tradition of youthful dis- 
appointment. I fancy him arranging his scrupulous toilet, 
not for Amaryllis or Negera, but, like Machiavelli, for the 
society of his beloved classics. His ears had needed no 
prophylactic wax to pass the Sirens' isle, nay, he would 
have kept them the wider open, studious of the dialect in 
wliich they sang, and perhaps triumphantly detecting the 
^•Eolic digamma in their lay. A thoroughly single man, 
smgle-minded, single-hearted, buttoning over his single heart 
a single-breasted surtout, and wearing always a hat of a 
smgle fashion, — did he in secret regard the dual number of 
his favorite language as a weakness ? The son of an officer 
of distinction in the Revolutionary War, he mounted the 
pulpit with the erect port of a soldier, and carried his cane 
more in the fasliion of a weapon than a staff, but with the 
point lowered in token of surrender to the peaceful projDrie- 
ties of his calling. Yet sometimes the martial instincts 
would burst the cerements of black coat and clerical neck- 
cloth, as once when the students had got into a fight upon 
the training-fi.eld, and the licentious soldiery, furious with 
rum, had diiven them at point of bayonet to the College 
gates, and even threatened to lift their arms against the 
Muses' bower. Then, lilve Major Goffe at Deerfield, sud- 
denly appeared the gray-haired P., all liis father resurgent 
in him, and shouted, " Now, my lads, stand your ground ; 
you 're in the right now ! don't let one of them get inside 
the College grounds ! " Thus he allowed arms to get the 
better of the toga, but raised it, like the Prophet's breeches, 
into a banner, and carefully ushered resistance with a pre- 
amble of infringed right. Fidelity was his strong charac- 
teristic, and burned equably in him through a life of eighty- 
three years. He drilled himself till inflexible habit stood 
sentinel before all those postern-weaknesses which tempera- 
ment leaves unbolted to temptation. A lover of the schol- 
ar's herb, yet loving freedom more, and knowing that the 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 289 

animal appetites ever hold one hand behind them for Satan 
to drop a bribe in, he would never have two cigars in his 
house at once, but walked every day to the shop to fetch his 
single diurnal solace. Nor would he trust himself with two 
on Saturdays, preferring (since he could not violate the Sab- 
bath even by that infinitesimal traffic) to depend on Provi- 
dential ravens, which were seldom wanting in the shape of 
some black-coated friend who knew his need and honored 
the scruple that occasioned it. He was faitliful also to his 
old hats, in which appeared the constant service of the an- 
tique world, and which he preserved forever, piled like a 
black pagoda under his dressing-table. No scarecrow was 
ever the residuary legatee of his beavers, though one of 
them in any of the neighboring peach-orchards would have 
been sovran against an attack of Freshmen. He wore them 
all in turn, getting through all in the course of the year, like 
the sun through the signs of the Zodiac, modulating them 
according to seasons and celestial phenomena, so that never 
was spider-web or duckweed so sensitive a weather-gauge 
as they. Nor did his political party find him less loyal. 
Taking all the tickets, he would seat himself apart, and care- 
fully compare them with the list of regular nominations as 
printed in his Daily Advertiser before he dropped his ballot 
in the box. In less ambitious moments, it almost seems to 
me that I would rather have had that slow, conscientious 
vote of P.'s alone, than have been chosen alderman of the 
ward ! 

If you had walked to what was then Sweet Auburn, by 
the pleasant Old Road, on some June morning thirty years 
ago, you would, very likely, have met two other character- 
istic persons, both phantasmagoric now and belonging to the 
Past. Fifty years earlier, the scarlet-coated, rapiered fig- 
ures of Vassall, Oliver, and Brattle creaked up and down 
there on red-heeled shoes, lifting the ceremonious three- 
cornered hat and offering the fugacious hospitalities of the 
19 



290 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 

snuff-box. They are all shadowy alike now, not one of 
your Etruscan Lucumos or Roman consuls more so, my 
dear Storg, First is W., his queue slender and tapering 
like the tail of a violet crab, held out horizontally, by the 
high collar of his shepherd's-gray overcoat, whose style ^Vas 
of the latest when he studied at Leyden in his hot youth. 
The age of cheap clothes sees no more of those faithful old 
garments, as proper to their wearers, and as distinctive as 
the barks of trees, and by long use interpenetrated with 
their very nature. Nor do we see so many humors (still 
in the old sense) now that every man's soul belongs to the 
Public, as when social distinctions were more marked, and 
men felt that their personalities were their castles, in which 
they could entrench themselves against the world. Now-a- 
days men are shy of letting their true selves be seen, as if 
in some former life they had committed a crime, and were 
all the time afraid of discovery and arrest in this. For- 
merly they used to insist on your giving the wall to their 
peculiarities, and you may still find examples of it in the 
parson or the doctor of retired villages. One of W.'s oddi- 
ties was touching. A little brook used to run across the 
street, and the sidewalk was carried over it by a broad stone. 
Of course, there is no brook now. What use did that little 
glimpse of ripple serve, where the children used to launch 
their chip fleets ? W., in going over this stone, which gave 
a hollow resonance to the tread, used to strike upon it three 
times with his cane, and mutter Tom ! Tom ! Tom I I used 
to think he was only mimicking with his voice the sound of 
the blows, and possibly it was that sound which suggested 
liis thought, — for he was remembering a favorite nephew 
prematurely dead. Perhaps Tom had sailed his boats 
there ; perhaps the reverberation under the old man's foot 
liinted at the hollowness of life ; perhaps the fleeting eddies 
of the water brought to mind the fugaces annos. W., like 
P., wore amazing spectacles, fit to transmit no smaller image 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 291 

than tlie page of miglitiest folios of Dioscorides or Hercules 
de Saxonia, and rising full-disked upon the beholder like 
those prodigies of two moons at once, portending change to 
monarchs. The great collar disallowing any independent 
rotation of the head, I remember he used to turn his whole 
23ersoA in order to bring their foci to bear upon an object. 
One can fancy that terrified nature would have yielded up 
her secrets at once, without cross-examination, at their first 
glare. Through them he had gazed fondly into the great 
mare's-nest of Junius, publishing his observations upon the 
eggs found therein in a tall octavo. It was he Avho intro- 
duced vaccination to this Western "World. He used to stop 
and say good morning kindly, and pat the shoulder of the 
blushing school-boy who now, with the fierce snow-storm 
wildei'ing without, sits and remembers sadly those old meet- 
ings and partings in the June sunshine. 

Then there was S., whose resounding " Haw ! haw ! haw ! 
by George ! " positively enlarged the income of every dwell- 
er in Cambridge. In downright, honest good cheer and 
good neighborhood, it was worth five hundred a year to 
every one of us. Its jovial thunders cleared the mental air 
of every sulky cloud. Pei-petual childhood dwelt in him, 
the childhood of his native Southern France, and its fixed 
air was all the time bubbling up and sparkling and winking 
in his eyes. It seemed as if his placid old face were only a 
mask behind which a merry Cupid had ambushed liimself, 
peeping out all the while, and ready to drop it when the 
play grew tiresome. Every word he uttered seemed to be 
hilarious, no matter what the occasion. If he were sick and 
you visited him, if he had met with a misfortune (and there 
are few men so wise that they can look even at the back of 
a retiring sorrow wth composure), it was all one ; his great 
l^ugh went off as if it were set like an alarum-clock, to run 
down, whether he would or no, at a certain nick. Even 
after an ordinary good-morning I (especially if to an old 



292 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

pupil, and in Frencli,) the wonderful Haiu ! haiv I haw ! hy 
George ! would burst upon you unexpectedly, like a salute 
of artillery on some holiday which you had forgotten. Ev- 
erything was a joke to him, — that the oath of allegiance 
had been administered to him by your grandfather, — that 
he had taught Prescott his first Spanish (of wliich he was 
proud), — no matter what. Everything came to him marked 
by nature — right side up, with care, and he kept it so. 
The world to him, as to all of us, was like a medal, on the 
obverse of which is stamped the image of Joy, and on the 
reverse that of Care. S. never took the foolish pains to 
look at that other side, even if he knew its existence ; much 
less would it have occurred to him to turn it into view and 
insist that his friends should look at it with liim. Nor was 
this a mere outside good-humor ; its source was deeper in a 
true Christian kindliness and amenity. Once when he had 
been knocked down by a tipsily-driven sleigh, and was urged 
to prosecute the offenders, — " No, no," he said, liis wounds 
still fresh, "young blood! young blood! it must have its 
way ; I was young myself." Was ! few men come into life 
so young as S. went out. He landed in Boston (then the 
front-door of America) in '93, and, in honor of the cere- 
mony, had his head powdered afresh and put on a suit of 
court-mourning before he set foot on tlie wharf. My fancy 
always dressed him in that violet silk, and liis soul certainly 
AYore a full court-suit. Wliat was there ever Hke his bow ? 
It was as if you had received a decoration, and could write 
yourself gentleman from that day forth. His hat rose, re- 
greeting your own, and having sailed through the stately 
curve of the old regime, sank gently back over that placid 
brain wliich harbored no thought less white than the powder 
which covered it. I have sometimes imagined that there 
was a graduated arc over his head, invisible to other ejeis 
than his, by which he meted out to each liis rightful share 
of castorial consideration. I carry in my memory three 



CAMBRIDGE WORTHIES — THIRTY YEARS AGO. 293 

exemplary bows. The first is that of an old beggar, who 
already carrying in his hand a white hat, the gift of benevo- 
lence, took oiF the black one from his head also, and pro- 
foundly saluted me with both at once, giving me, in return 
for my alms, a dual benediction, puzzling as a nod from 
Janus Bifrons. The second I received from an old Cardinal 
who was taldng liis walk just outside the Porta San Gio- 
vanni at Rome. I paid him the courtesy due to his age and 
rank. Forthwith rose — first the Hat ; second, the hat of 
his confessor; third, that of another priest who attended 
him ; fourth, the fringed cocked-hat of his coachman ; fifth 
and sixth, the ditto, ditto, of his two footmen. Here was an 
investment, indeed ; six hundred per cent interest on a sin- 
gle bow ! The third bow, worthy to be noted in one's alma- 
nac among the other mvrahilia, was that of S. in wliich 
courtesy had mounted to the last round of her ladder, — and 
tried to draw it up after her. 

But the genial veteran is gone even while I am writing 
this, and I will play Old Mortality no longer. Wandering 
among these recent graves, my dear friend, we may chance 

to but no, I will not end my sentence. I bid you 

heartily farewell I 



BEETH OVEN. 



A LETTER TO GOETHE. 

By BETTINA VON ARNIM 

IT is Beethoven of whom I will now speak to you, and 
with whom I have forgotten the world and you : true, 
I am not ripe for speaking, but I am nevertheless not mis- 
taken when I say (what no one understands and believes) 
that he far surpasses all in mind, and whether we shall 
ever overtake him? — I doubt it! may he only live till 
that mighty and sublime enigma which Hes within his 
spirit be matured to its highest perfection ! Yes, may he 
reach his highest aim, then will he surely leave a key to 
heavenly knowledge in our hands which will bring us one 
step nearer to true happiness. 

To you I may confess, that I believe in a divine magic, 
which is the element of mental nature; this magic does 
Beethoven exercise in his art ; all relating to it which he 
can teach you is pure magic; each combination is the 
organization of a higher existence: and thus, too, does 
Beethoven feel himself to be the founder of a new sensual 
basis in spiritual life. You will understand what I mean 
to say by this, and what is true. Who could replace this 
spirit? from whom could we expect an equivalent? The 
whole business of mankind passes to and fro before him 
like clock-work ; he alone produces freely from out himself 
the unforeseen, the uncreated. What is intercourse with 




\ 



BEETHOVEN. 295 

tlie world to liini who ere the sum^ise is already at his 
sacred work, and who after sunset scarcely looks around 
him, — who forgets to nourish his body, and is borne in 
liis flight on the stream of inspiration far beyond the shores 
of that every-day life ? He says himself: "When I open 
my eyes, I cannot but sigh, for wdiat I see is against my 
religion, and I am compelled to despise the world, which 
has no presentiment that music is a liigher revelation than 
all their wisdom and philosophy. Music is the wine which 
inspires new creations ; and I am the Bacchus who presses 
out this noble mne for mankind, and makes them spirit- 
drunk; and then, when they are sober again, what have 
they not fished up to bring with them to dry land ? I have 
no friend ; I must live with myself alone ; but I well know 
that God is nearer to me in my art than to others. I com- 
mune mth him without dread ; I have ever acknowledged 
and understood him ; neither have I any fear for my mu- 
sic ; it can meet no evil fate. He to whom it makes itself 
intelligible must become freed from all the wretchedness 
which others drag about with them." All this did Beetho- 
ven say to me the fii^st time I saw him. A feehng of rev- 
ence penetrated me, as, with such friendly openness, he 
uttered his mind to me, who could have been only very 
unimportant to him. I was surprised, too, because I had 
been told he was very shy, and conversed with no one. 

They were afraid to introduce me to him, and I was 
forced to find him out alone. He has three dwellings, in 
which he alternately secretes himself; one in the countiy, 
one in the town, and the third upon the bulwarks. Here 
I found him upon the third floor ; unannounced, I entered, 
— he was seated at the piano ; I mentioned my name : he 
was very friendly, and asked if I would hear a song that he 
had just composed; then he sung, shrill and piercing, so 
that the plaintiveness reacted upon the hearer, " Know'st 
thou the land." "It 's beautiful, is it not?" said he, in- 



29 G BETTIXA VON ARNIM. 

spired, "most beautiful! I will sing it again." He was 
deliglitecl at my clieerful praise. " Most men," said lie, are 
touched by sometbing good, but tbey are no artist-natures ; 
artists are ardent, they do not weep." Then he sung an- 
other of your songs, to which he had a few days ago com- 
posed miisic, " Dry not the tears of eternal love." He 
accompanied me home, and it was upon the way that he 
said so many beautiful things upon art ; withal he spoke so 
loud, stood still so often upon the street, that some courage 
was necessary to listen; he spoke passionately and much 
too startlingly for me not also to forget that we were in the 
street. They were much surprised to see me enter, with 
liim, in a large company assembled to dine with us. After 
dinner, he placed himself, unasked, at the instrument, and 
played long and wonderfully : his pride and genius were 
both in ferment; under such excitement his spirit creates 
the inconceivable, and his fingers perform the impossible. 
Since this he comes every day, or I go to him. For this 
I neglect parties, picture-galleries, theatres, and even St. 
Stephen's tower itself Beethoven says, " Ah ! what should 
you see there ? I will fetch you, and towards evening we 
will go through the Schonbrunn alley." Yesterday, I 
walked with him in a splendid garden, in full blossom, all 
the hot-houses open ; the scent was overpowering. Beetho- 
ven stood still in the burning sun, and said, " Goethe's 
poems maintain a powerful sway over me, not only by their 
matter, but also their rhythm ; I am disposed and excited 
to compose by this language, which ever forms itself, as 
through spirits, to more exalted order, already carrying 
within itself the mystery of harmonies. Then, from the 
focus of inspiration, I feel myself compelled to let the mel- 
ody stream forth on all sides. I follow it, — passionately 
overtake it again ; I see it escape me, vanish amidst the 
crowd of varied excitements, — soon I seize upon it again 
with renewed passion ; I cannot part from it, — with quick 



BEETHOVEN. 297 

rapture I multiply it, in every form of modulation, — and 
at the last moment, I triumph over the first musical thought, 

— see now, — that's a symphony; — yes, music is indeed 
the mediator between the spiritual and sensual life. I 
should like to speak with Goethe upon this, if he v/ould 
understand me. Melody is the sensual life of poetry. Do 
not the spiritual contents of a poem become sensual feeling 
through melody? Do we not in Mignon's song perceive 
its entire sensual frame of mind through melody ? and does 
not this perception excite again to new productions ? There, 
the spirit extends itself to unbounded universality, where 
all in all forms itself into a bed for the stream of feehngs 
which take their rise in the simple musical thought, and 
which else would die unperceived away; this is harmony, 
this is expressed in my symphonies ; the blending of various 
forms rolls on as in a bed to its goal. Then one feels that 
an Eternal, an Infinite, never quite to be embraced, lies in 
all that is spiritual; and although in my works I have 
always a feeling of success, yet I have an eternal hunger, 

— that what seemed exhausted with the last stroke of the 
drum with which I drive my enjoyment, my musical con- 
victions, into the hearers, — to begin again hke a child. 
Speak to Goethe of me, tell him he should hear my sym- 
phonies ; he would then allow me to be right in saying that 
music is the only unembodied entrance into a higher sphere 
of knowledge which possesses man, but he will never be 
able to possess it. One must have rhythm in the mind to 
comprehend music in its essential being ; music gives pre- 
sentiment, inspiration of heavenly knowledge ; and that 
which the spirit feels sensual in it is the embodying of spir- 
itual knowledge. Although the spirits live upon music, as 
one lives upon air, yet it is something else spiritually to 
imderstand it ; but the more the soul draws out of it its sen- 
sual nourishment, the more ripe does the spirit become for 
a happy intelligence with it. But few attain to this ; for, 



298 BETTINA VON ARNIM. 

fis tliousands engage themselves for love's sake, and among 
these thousands love does not once reveal itself, although 
they all occupy themselves of love, in like manner do 
thousands hold communion with music, and do not possess 
its revelation : signs of an elevated moral sense form, too, 
the groundwork of music, as of every art. All genuine 
invention is a moral progress. To subject one's self to 
music's unsearchable laws ; by virtue of these laws to curb 
and guide the spirit, so that it pours forth these revelations, 
this is the isolating principle of art ; to be dissolved in its 
revelations, this is abandonment to genius, which tranquilly 
exercises its authority over the delirium of unbridled pow- 
ers; and thus grants to fancy the highest efficacy. Thus 
does art ever represent divinity, and that which stands in 
human relation to it is religion; what we acquire through 
art is from God, a divine suggestion, which sets up a goal 
for human capacities, which the spirit attains. 

" We do not know what grants us knowledge ; the firmly 
enclosed seed needs the moist, warm, electric soil to grow, 
think, express itself Music is the electric soil in which the 
spirit lives, thinks, invents. Philosophy is the precipitation 
of its electric spirit; and its necessity, which will ground 
everything upon a first principle, is supplied by music; 
and although the spirit be not master of that which it 
creates through music, yet is it blessed in this creation; 
in this manner, too, is every creation of art independent; 
mightier than the artist himself, and returns by its appear- 
ance back to the divine ; and is only connected with men, 
in so much as it bears witness to the divine mediation 
in liim. 

"Music gives to the spirit relation to harmony. A 
thought abstracted has still the feeling of communion, of 
affinity, in the spirit ; thus each thought in music is in the 
most intimate, inseparable affinity with the communion of 
harmony, which is unity. 



BEETHOVEN. 299 

" The electric excites the spirit to musical, fluent, stream- 
ing production. 

" I am of electric nature. I must break off with my 
unwitnessed msdom, else I shall miss the rehearsal ; write 
to Goethe about me, if you understand me; but I can 
answer nothing, and I will willingly let myself be instructed 
by him." I promised him to write to you all, as well as I 
could understand it. He took me to a grand rehearsal, 
with full orchestra, — there I sat in the wide, unlighted 
space, in a box quite alone ; single gleams stole through 
the cre^dces and knot-holes, in which a stream of bright 
sparks were dancing, like so many streets of light, peopled 
by happy spirits. 

There, then, I saw this mighty spirit exercise his rule. 
O Goethe ! no emperor and no king feels such entire con- 
sciousness of his power, and that all power proceeds from 
him, as this Beethoven, who just now, in the garden, in vain 
sought out the source from which he receives it all ; did I 
understand him as I feel him, then I should know every- 
thing. There he stood so firmly resolved, — his gestures, 
his countenance, expressed the completion of his creation ; 
he prevented each error, each misconception ; not a breath 
was voluntary ; all, by the genial presence of his spirit, set 
in the most regulated activity. One could prophesy that 
such a spirit, in its later perfection, would step forth again 
as ruler of the earth. 



A SONG FROM THE ARCADIA 



By sir PHILIP SIDNEY. 

SINCE Nature's works be good, and death doth serve 
As Nature's work : why should we fear to die ? 
Smce fear is vain but when it may preserve : 
Why should we fear that which we cannot fly ? 

Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, 
Disarming human minds of native might : 
While each conceit an ugly figure bears. 
Which were not ill, well viewed in reason's light. 

Our only eyes, which dimmed with passions be, 
And scarce discern the dawn of coming day, 
Let them be cleared, and no^v begin to sec. 
Our life is but a step in dusty way. 

Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind, 
Smce tliis we feel, great loss we cannot And. 



Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 




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